At a Loss
by QTuani7
Summary: Sequel to 'Words of One Syllable'. John is left floundering alone in London, his life rapidly heading downhill after the events of the Reichenbach case. Sherlock never plans to return, until he hears news from London that Moriarty has played his final hand and John Watson has disappeared.
1. Chapter 1

Part II

Chapter 1

John followed Sherlock into the living room, wondering what the hell had just gone down. The trial had been a bizarre mix of watching Moriarty sit passively and interpreting for Sherlock. The court had discovered that, _of course, _the insane genius detective didn't understand BSL or the interpreter they'd provided. He hadn't liked Moriarty staring at his hands as he'd struggled through the questions. The man had smirked at him afterward, like he'd just handed the bastard some great treat.

"-Bank -England. -Tower -London. -P-E-N-T-O-N-V-I-L-L-E. -Our -country; -three -place -most -secure. -Six weeks ago -M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y -enter. -No idea -how?, why?" John summarized, dropping himself into his chair. Sherlock started to pace but he kept his eye on him. "-All -we -know -what? -we know -"

"He ended up in custody," Sherlock finished for him, nodding like they'd come to some great resolution.

"-That; -finish," John protested, annoyed by the whole damn day.

"Stop what?" Sherlock asked, looking baffled.

"-That -look," John answered, gesturing at the man's face.

"Look?" Sherlock asked, apparently lost.

_I'm stupider than you, get used to it._

"-You -that -look -again," John complained.

"Well, I can't see it, can I?" Sherlock asked, before nodding at him like that was covered and going back to staring at his damn fingertips, apparently trying to figure out whatever leap of understanding came out of 'he ended up in custody'.

John nodded toward the mirror and Sherlock glanced into it.

_That look, _John thought. _You have to let me know what's going on if I'm going to help you._

"It's my face," Sherlock answered, sounding annoyed now.

"-Yes, -expression, -look at it. -Your -face -say -'-what happen? -we -both -know'," John explained.

Sherlock blinked.

"Well, we do," he answered.

"-No. -I -not. -That -explain -why -expression -annoying."

"If Moriarty wanted the jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in prison right now is because he _chose _to be there," Sherlock explained, starting to pace again. "Somehow this is part of his scheme."

John nodded and settled into his chair, trying to think of what he could do to help that wasn't thinking. Sherlock obviously understood Moriarty's twisted way of thinking far better than he ever would.

~~/~~

The trial wasn't going well. If it weren't for how bloody obvious Moriarty's involvement had been, the P.A. might have actually managed to cock it up enough for the case to last years. As it was, John went to work every day and watched the case unfold on his phone and dragged himself home every night to a very crotchety Sherlock Holmes who utterly refused any more food or drink than that which would sustain him.

John did his best, staring at Sherlock's walls of photos and criminal contacts to try and figure out what, exactly, Sherlock was working on. Piecing together Moriarty's network, apparently, but Sherlock didn't stop to explain. The only evidence he had of progress at all were the waves of exalted shouts and furious rampages that took the man by turn.

"-We -together?" John asked, staring at where Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, barely turning his head to better look at him. John settled back into his chair.

"-We -together? -Three weeks ago -up til now -not touch. -List of three; -first, -not kiss, -second, -not fuck, -third, not talk. -We -act -like -flatmates," John complained.

"We are flatmates, John," Sherlock explained condescendingly, shifting slightly on the couch. John scoffed, frustrated and trying not to go overwrought with that and think the man had broken it off without ever telling him. It wouldn't be out of character.

He rubbed his hands down his face roughly.

"-No, -we -partner," he argued. "-Or -least, -suppose -partner."

Sherlock glanced over at him, looking concerned and John felt his breathing stop for a moment, scared. Surely the man still wanted -

"Am I supposed to kiss you, then? Would that be better? Because this is a complicated case and -" Sherlock started.

_He's still with me. _John nodded swiftly, letting himself relax again.

"-No," he answered Sherlock, shaking his head. "-You -don't want -touch -me, -don't touch -me."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. The man nodded suddenly and went back to staring at the ceiling. John growled to himself and had to wave at the man.

"-This -about -you -not talk -me. -I -your -partner. -I help you. -If -you -not talk -me, -I -useless. -Happen -something; -you -need -tell me," John ranted. Sherlock blinked at him before opening his mouth in that 'ah' of realization.

"I wondered when this would happen," he said cryptically and turned back to the ceiling.

Great.

John waved again.

"-happen -what?" John demanded.

"When your pride would catch up to you. I knew it would happen eventually," Sherlock stated, his voice too light, almost cheerful in his realization. "You don't like tagging behind. You shouldn't worry, it's a normal emotion. It was much more unusual that you didn't seem to have it."

Sherlock swung his legs up and around to sit up on the couch, focusing fully on him now for the first time in weeks.

"There is nothing else I can offer you, John. I can not explain every step of my logic at every turn. How much work would be lost under such a regimen?" he explained slowly, looking every bit as awkward as he had at Angelo's the first night, saying he was married to his work.

_He's preparing to break up with me. _

"-No," John answered. "-Pride -not -need. -I -not help -much -with -thought. -Know -that. -That -alright. -But -this -case -involve -me. -Danger where? -you -need -tell -me. -Let -me -fight. -You -know -case, -I help you. -Something -you -don't know -I know. -I -don't help -with -puzzle. -I -help -with -everything -else. -You -need -me. -We -good -partner. -But -only -if -you -talk with me."

Sherlock rolled over onto his back, further away so he couldn't see.

"Fuck," John cursed, throwing his hands up. The man was infuriating. Sherlock always was, but in this moment John just wanted a man who'd share his life with him. John got up from his chair, wanting to be anywhere else and headed for the stairs. He slammed the door on the way out, wishing Sherlock could hear it.

~~/~~

Moriarty was better at this. That much was clear from the court case. The man knew people; he was like Mycroft, played them like so many strings. Sherlock knew puzzles better, that was obvious from the solid winning streak he'd had before they'd ended up in that pool, but Moriarty had changed the game to suit his strengths now. They weren't playing with puzzles, they were playing with people.

Sherlock turned toward the ceiling, watching the dust fly overhead. John had slammed the door. He wished he had no connections but Mycroft again. That had been a wonderful existence, a safe existence, where the only one who could be hurt was the most powerful man in the country and not easily fooled.

Moriarty was playing with John now and it was working. John was talking about them being partners – about an 87% chance he was either looking for marriage or a break up from as far as Sherlock had tallied such conversations. And then he'd slammed the door -angry, then. Not good, and Sherlock was supposed to do something -stay, leave him alone, follow him, plead, touch him somehow? - there was no clear way to know _what, _which meant there was a high chance he'd chosen wrong.

He couldn't play that game with Moriarty. He'd never win it. He needed to focus on the case, Moriarty's web, and tear it down before Moriarty took everything from him. He didn't want it to be just Mycroft and him again.

~~/~~

Sherlock pulled his hands through his hair. There was a time limit, based in how long John's faith in him would hold out against all evidence, and he had no idea how long it'd last. He breathed slowly, forcing his heart to calm as he refocused on the problem before him. Moriarty was being released within the hour, he was sure of it. The trial was ending; he could see it in his mind, the judge advising the jury.

"You must find him guilty," Sherlock muttered to himself and closed his eyes. There was little to be gained from going to prison. No, Moriarty would stay out of jail. It was time for the next part of their battle. The verdict would come out in his favor – likely determined by duress but there were other means, too many to determine the exact method Moriarty would chose.

John would be shocked by it. Sherlock had little doubt.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sherlock opened his eyes. John, no doubt. Sherlock pulled himself up, deciding to make the tea himself. Mrs. Hudson was out to the store and he wanted the tea hot. He hid the evidence wall and played violin while he waited. There was no point starting on any of his experiments when he had so little time. He had to beat Moriarty at this game. He'd never find another John. It was this battle or he'd live his life out alone.

He kept the mirror by his periphery vision to wait for the man's arrival and Moriarty didn't disappoint. Sherlock put down his bow when he glimpsed the door's shadow slide slightly. The door had been nudged. Moriarty pushed it open with a single hand and stood in the doorway, apparently waiting for him to turn.

"Most people knock," Sherlock commented, though it wasn't true – at least not for that door. "But then, you're not most people I suppose," he added, just to show off. He pulled his violin from his shoulder and moved to put it away in the case on the mantle.

"Kettle's just boiled," he offered.

"-Y-O-H-A-N-N -S-E-B-A-S-T-I-A-N, -if -hear -that -appalled," Moriarty mentioned, grabbing an apple.

Yohann Sebastian -almost certainly 'Bach', made more likely by the fact that he was playing the man's first sonata. Appalled -why? Two options – because he'd played it badly or because he'd cut it off. Moriarty glanced around the apartment, not looking impressed.

"-You -mind?" he asked, glancing at the chairs.

"Please," Sherlock offered, gesturing to John's chair. Moriarty took the other. A power play, and a strangely trivial one. Why?

Sherlock sat across from the man, still curious.

"-You -know, -he -on -death -bed, -die -soon. -Son -play -piano, -his -piece. -Bach -listen, -listen, -listen. -Before -piece -end, -boy -stop, -"

"And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano, and finished it," Sherlock said, doing his best to hide his surprise. Moriarty didn't only speak sign language – he spoke _their _sign language. How long had he been watching them? Yet again Moriarty proved himself one of the only men in the world Sherlock could understand.

_Would I have joined him, if it weren't for John?_

It was possible. He wanted to prove himself to the man, wanted to watch what would happen if they played this game with eachother, see the sparks fly – but he'd lose John.

"-Melody -not finish; -he -not tolerate," Jim added.

"Neither can you. That's why you've come," Sherlock finished, getting up walk to the tea table. Did the man think he was too slow to understand? That could be useful.

"-But -honest. -You -tiny bit -happy," Moriarty demanded before he cut into his apple.

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock asked, pouring his tea. Nothing else made sense. But Moriarty wanted to underestimate him and Sherlock liked that idea just as well. He had to beat this man.

"-Your -world; -I -there -again," Moriarty answered.

_That's true. _

He wanted to play. Moriarty gazed up into his eyes as Sherlock passed him to sit down.

_He's enamored of me. _That could be useful too. God, he wanted to watch the sparks fly. One game he couldn't play, with the only man in the world who could challenge him.

_John is worth more. _

Why?

It made no sense. Why was his partner worth more than the best opponent he'd ever have?

"-Every -fairy -story -need -villain -old -school. -You -need -me -or -you -nothing. -Why? -We -alike, -you -me. -But -you -boring. -Side -angels, -you -there," Moriarty drew a picture with his hands, showing the angels lined up side by side and pointing to where Sherlock sat, an angel amongst them all. This was how sign was supposed to look, a whole story painted with color, not a list of words. That was obvious, and after months John couldn't do it at all.

Sherlock picked up his cup, pretending to give himself time to think. It was obvious, John would win, John was _everything. _And Moriarty likely knew everything, he was Mycroft that way. But Moriarty had to think he was stupid enough to think he could hide it.

"Got to the jury, of course," Sherlock commented finally.

_Duh._

"-Tower -London -doors -open, -open -open. -I walk inside easily. -Hotel, -twelve -rooms, -you -think -I -not enter? -Doors closed, -I approach and hit doors, -they stay shut?" Moriarty scoffed and glanced at the television.

_I didn't need the hint, _Sherlock thought, even as he was grateful for it. Moriarty was going to underestimate him heartily – maybe that would allow him enough time to save it all.

"Cable network," Sherlock filled in.

"-T-V; -every -hotel -bedroom -have -one. -Every -person -have -pressure -point. -Something -they -want -protect. -Push, -they fall away easily," Moriarty replied.

Sherlock sat down across from the genius, ready to spend a tedious afternoon across from a man telling him what he already knew. Still, it was a relief to have someone _speak _to him, the language blooming into all it could be.

He _hated _pretending he was so ignorant about the world as to believe the P vs. NP problem had been solved and had lead to a method. He knew what the P vs. NP problem could do to cryptography, to all its applications; Moriarty wasn't exaggerating. Modern security systems would be rendered trivial for years if 3-SAT was solved. But his mother had almost killed herself on that problem. He knew what it would take to solve it, and it wasn't a tapped pattern of Bach's Partita number one on a pant leg. But _god, _he was going to pretend it was even if it killed him.

Moriarty left and Sherlock scoffed out a laugh. As if P vs. NP had been solved by a man who thought 'I owe you' carved into an apple would have an emotional effect on a sociopath. He was one step ahead.

~~/~~

Sherlock knew why Moriarty had gone to trial; that at least was obvious by the fact that the tantrums had subsided, but the genius hadn't seen fit to share it. John was out of this case, apparently. That hurt, but he was hardly going to complain to Mycroft. He hadn't seen the man since that strange night in his house, but he was hardly surprised to be dragged back to his grand house. He was, however, surprised to see the sensationalist magazine on the posh club's end table.

"You read this stuff?" he asked, picking up the article promising '_**Sherlock: The Shocking Truth" **_with the strapline "_**Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All"**_

"I'd love to know where she got her information," John mentioned lightly. They'd stop talking about Sherlock or they wouldn't lift their arms for weeks.

"Someone called Brook. Recognize the name?" Mycroft replied, his voice too light – like John was supposed to get some inside joke. John lowered the papers so he could see the man and shook his head.

"School friend maybe?" he suggested.

_Hardly a friend, to give a reporter such information._

Mycroft laughed snidely and John wanted to punch him.

"Of Sherlock's?" Mycroft asked, chuckling. "But that's not why I asked you here."

Four international assassins and Mycroft asking him to watch out for Sherlock. John scoffed out a laugh as he left. Like there was any question of that. He felt himself frown as he hailed a cab. Mycroft had to know there was no protection someone if anyone was determined to kill him – killing people was just too easy for that. There was nothing more inherently frightening about a darkened parking garage than a well-lit street – getting shot felt just the same.

John climbed into the cab, concerned. If the assassins were just waiting for an order they were the same as any other sharpshooter with a target on his head and he'd kill them like any other enemy soldier. But if this was some other ploy in Moriarty's game he'd have to leave them breathing. He just had to trust that Sherlock would figure out which it was before either of them got shot.

John got back to 221B to see the front door hanging wide open – Mrs. Hudson was likely airing the place out. Hopefully she'd vacuumed. John paid the cabbie and started for the door, only to hesitate before he reached it. There was an envelope propped up against the doorstep. It was a strangely dark brown, some all-natural material he'd expect from Greenpeace or some such, but otherwise it felt like a normal envelope.

It was unaddressed. John felt his eyebrows furrow as he picked the thing up, hoping he wasn't about to stumble onto one of Mrs. Hudson's love letters. The envelope was too heavy for a letter and John's mind flashed automatically to the anthrax scares. Still, he figured, sliding his finger under the seal, the assassins had easier ways of killing him if that's what they chose.

Brown dust fell out, onto his feet. John caught the debris in his fingers, feeling his eyebrows rise. The argument for an anthrax package was certainly looking more promising. It was a dry, clumpy dust that skittered over the ground by his feet as it fell. John tipped the envelope up, saving its contents. No doubt Sherlock would have an answer. Some plea for a new case, perhaps. Some clever code Sherlock would decipher in a moment and call a paltry attempt to gain his interest. Still, he'd give it to the man all the same.

"'Scuse, mate," a man stated and John stepped out of the way automatically, turning to see a giant tattooed man stride past him, hauling a stepladder before him. John followed the man inside, shoving the mystery envelope into his pocket as he went.

"-Weird -happen," he started as he came into the living room. He stopped signing immediately, hesitating in the doorway. Greg and Donovan were in their flat, both standing by Sherlock. "-what happen?" he asked before he thought to speak. Greg and Donovan both looked at him askance.

_I've gotten too used to silence here._

"Kidnapping," Sherlock replied without looking at him, crossing to his laptop.

"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S," Lestrade added, glancing between them like something was off.

"He's in Washington, isn't he?" John protested, figuring that if Sherlock had decided to ignore him he might as well get his information from Lestrade.

"Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine," Lestrade answered.

_Oh. Hell. _

Donovan flashed him the pictures of the children.

"They're at St. Aldate's," Greg added.

"Posh boarding place down in Surrey," Donovan explained.

"Translate for me?" Lestrade asked, jerking his head at Sherlock. "I need to tell him that the school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including these two."

"And that the kids have vanished," Donovan added.

"And that the ambassador has asked for you two personally," Lestrade returned.

John signed and tapped on Sherlock's arm.

"If it's not about the case, leave me alone; I'm too busy for sex. You know that," Sherlock stated without looking up from his laptop.

John closed his eyes. The flat had gone stupidly, stupidly silent.

_Whatever. I'm not going back to the army. _John tapped Sherlock's shoulder again.

"What, then?" Sherlock demanded, still without looking up from his ten tabs of recent news articles.

John moved to his periphery and started signing. Sherlock nodded slightly when he finished and John turned to face the music. Lestrade and Donovan were both still watching them, eyebrows up.

"We don't believe it, you know. You shouldn't worry. Psychopaths don't feel love. They don't feel anything," Donovant stated. "Don't bother being embarrassed, is all, we know he's lying," she added, shrugging.

Lestrade glanced between Sherlock and him again, not looking as sure.

"Why would I be embarrassed?" John asked and Donovan smirked slightly, like he'd just answered a different question. John felt his eyebrows furrow, but Sherlock was pulling up from his chair before he had a chance to ask. The man had strode past them and was out the door without a word only a second later and John resignedly moved to follow.

"Not the healthiest relationship in the world, is it?" Lestrade asked and John blinked, trying to figure out what kind of relationship Lestrade thought it was. Either way, he was right.

"The Reichenbach hero," Donovan added sarcastically.

_We'd seemed healthy enough before Moriarty got involved. Or at least maybe getting there. _

_Is he getting bored of me already, then? _John wondered, holding out an arm to gesture for Donovan to lead them out.

"Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity?" Lestrade snarked, moving toward the door.

~~/~~


	2. Chapter 2

The case felt far-fetched, even for Sherlock. John watched the man following the linseed oil tracks down the hall, deciding that if nothing else could be said about it, this case managed to make absolutely no sense at all. Only just enough sense for Sherlock to follow it, apparently.

And deduce the intruder's shoe size, height, gait, and walking pace, apparently, he added as Sherlock bragged. John rubbed a hand over his face, unsure what to do. He watched Sherlock chuckle to himself as he crouched on the floor by a child's footprint and decided that if nothing else, he could protect the man from himself.

"-Fun?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Starting to," he answered.

"-Not -smile -maybe?"

Sherlock lifted his head.

"-Children -taken?" John reminded him. Sherlock lowered his head again to concentrate on scraping at the floor. John sighed and got back up.

~~/~~

Molly had said something to him.

Bore/core/door/for/fore/gore/more/pour/poor/roar/s ore/tore/tour/whore/your/you're? A – that at least was definite. Bit/fit/git/hit/mitt/pit/quit/sit/tit/wit/zit bike/dike/hike/like/Mike/mic/pike/Reich by/bye/die/dye/fie/guy/hi/high/lie/lye/my/pie/rye/ sigh/tie/vie/why bad/cad/dad/fad/mad/pad/rad/sad/tad bees/fees/he's/Lee's/sees/tease/wheeze/ bed/dead/head/led/lead/read/red/said/Ted/wed

'You're a bit like my dad. He's dead', 'You're a tit like my dad. He's dead'. 'You're a wit like my dad. He's dead' or any of that ending in 'he's red', 'Lee's dead' or "Lee's red'. He still didn't know anyone named Lee, but any of the permutations were almost equally meaningless. And likely offensive – there was some rule about likening people to the dead even in honest cases. Made people feel threatened or ugly and Molly likely wasn't shooting for either. Still, she broke the normal social conventions on a regular basis, it couldn't be discounted that she'd be doing the same now.

"No, sorry," she interrupted herself, closing her eyes. Her cheeks brightened and she only glanced at him for a moment – likely embarrassed, then. Had probably likened him to a dead man, then.

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area," Sherlock replied honestly. Molly cringed – wanted to be better at it, perhaps. Wanted him to find some meaning in the statement that he was like her dead father, maybe. No way to determine for sure.

Molly opened her mouth to talk again and Sherlock wanted to growl. Back to the lipreading, then, but it could be about the case.

"When he?she?Lee? was dying, he was _ _ cheerful. _ except when _ could see. _ Lee?She?He? Looked bad/mad/sad," she said. Or something like it. This was infuriating. Sherlock glanced around for John. The man was looking through papers on the other side of the lab, apparently unaware of the conversation. Sherlock growled and went back to focusing on Molly's face.

"Molly-" he growled.

"You look bad/mad/sad," she glanced toward John – almost definitely to refer to him, none of her projects were in that area of the lab. "_ you think he/she/Lee can't see you," she added. Certainly referring to John, then.

"Are you okay?" she asked -that one, at least, he was certain of. He'd seen it at the hospital and had had it confirmed.

Molly added something but Sherlock didn't catch it.

"I'm fine," he lied. Moriarty was winning; He could feel it. Control was slipping into Moriarty's hands and he had found nothing on the man. So much on his web, the names to bring him down but no proof and nothing on the man. Sherlock went back to his microscope.

Molly tapped his arm and slipped something next to his hand. Sherlock glanced down.

_**Don't just say you're okay. I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you. If you need anything, if there's anything I can do, just tell me. Please.**_

_What could I need from you? _Sherlock looked up but Molly had already started for the door. He glanced at John who was still uselessly puttering around, thankfully oblivious to their conversation.

The more distant he was with John, the less John knew, the less Moriarty would think he knew; the more Moriarty would underestimate him. Still, he'd have to be more subtle about it if Molly was noticing. He wanted to grab his partner, pull him close, but fortunately he had plenty of practice in not caring. He'd need it now. Moriarty had another move coming, that was clear. Sherlock just didn't know what it would be yet. 'Burn you' could have so many denotations.

John was waving his hands in the air, holding the envelope they'd found at the kidnapping scene and Sherlock refocused. There was always the case.

~~/~~

"-Hey," John waved when they were in the cab to Scotland Yard. Sherlock glanced over, hoping it was something important. "-I -need -faster -way -sign -your -name. -Too -long," he complained.

Not important, then.

"I know, that's why I use this for John," Sherlock replied shortly, twisting a 'J' twice by his heart. John rolled his eyes at him and muttered something Sherlock didn't catch. Probably irrelevant but Sherlock wanted to know anyway.

"-We -ought not -give -sign -name -ourselves," John stated. Sherlock blinked, his ruminating cutting off in utter confusion. It wasn't often he could think of _no _reason against an action. John nodded swiftly, like he'd just made some good argument.

"-Alright," he said. "-I -will -think."

Moriarty was waiting for him to figure it out before he made his next move. Sherlock felt his curiosity waring with him. He wanted to _know, _he loved these puzzles, his brain left to gain real traction on a problem, dig into it until it was _solved. _Sherlock felt a lick of excitement at the thought of it.

John was different in kind to everything else. He was like the Work, important as utterly separate from his use. And solving Moriarty's puzzle would only bring him pain faster.

Sherlock had a feeling curiosity was supposed to hold no weight against that.

~~/~~

He should have seen it coming sooner, Sherlock thought, staring at his laptop screen. John was standing at the window watching Lestrade and Donovan climb back into the car they'd left out front. Moriarty had played his hand; his reputation was the target, then. Moriarty would burn his good name.

The assassins were a twist he didn't yet understand. What was the final problem? Assassins killing each other, for a code he knew didn't exist?

He messed the timing up. He had wanted to have the camera down before Lestrade showed up with his inevitable request to bring him to Scotland Yard; had wanted to take that moment from Moriarty. Oh well, it was irrelevant. The Inspector had left without him all the same.

Sherlock felt strong hands grab onto his shoulders and press forward over his chest. John had moved around him, then. He let himself be turned in his chair and gazed up into John's worried face. John didn't look worried often.

_We need more distance. _This needed to not hit John when it fell apart.

"-What happen?" John demanded.

"They'll be deciding," Sherlock stated. Meaningless, of course they'd be deciding. The question was what came after, what were the assassins for if not to kill him?

"-Deciding?" John asked.

"Whether or not to come back with a warrant and arrest me," Sherlock answered. That was still up in the air, but it was fairly likely Lestrade would return. He was a good Inspector, had learned the dangers of sentiment and usually managed to work around them.

"You think?" John asked. For emphasis, only, -Sherlock was almost sure of it.

"Standard procedure," Sherlock agreed. Three assassins now; why would they need three? Surely the two kills had been planned out, some kind of clue. So three assassins. Three kills that weren't him, what would that solve? That wouldn't worsen his reputation unless he'd been framed, but Moriarty had enough to ruin his reputation and send him permanently to prison as it was; especially given his propensity to jury rigging. More deaths would be redundant.

"-Should -go -with -him. -People -will -think," John started, before placing his hands back over Sherlock's shoulders. His touch was warm and steady and Sherlock fought not to relax into it.

"I don't care what people think," Sherlock answered.

_False. _

"-If -they -think -you -stupid -or -wrong, -you care," John protested, lifting his hands away to speak.

_I've dealt with people thinking I'm wrong for thirty five years, you really think Moriarty will play that card? It's been beaten to death already, _Sherlock thought, but he didn't say. He wasn't going to play Moriarty's game; the curiosity wasn't fun anymore; John wasn't safe. John would stay away from this.

"-I -don't want -world -believe -you -" John broke off, looking concerned.

"Believe I'm what?"

"F-R-A-U-D," John answered. Sherlock shifted his weight and John crouched and ran his hands over Sherlock's knees, settling him back into the chair.

"You're worried they're right," Sherlock stated. That hurt unnecessarily. He'd stay with John anyway. It wouldn't effectively change anything.

"-No," John denied, shaking his head.

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well," Sherlock accused.

_And defrauded by your partner._

"-No, -I -not," John answered, staring into his eyes sincerely. He'd lose John if the man thought him a fraud for too long, that was clear.

Damn it John, _think. _For one _moment. _Why the impossible case, the screaming girl? Why couldn't John just _think?_

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too," Sherlock turned and slammed his hand down on the desk, to not punch his very dim partner.

_Just _think. _How can't you see it? I can't lose you. _

"Can't you see what's going on?" Sherlock growled and the air came from his lungs too hard; his stomach clenched to propel it. He'd shouted, he thought. Unintentionally.

_Is this the final problem? Getting John to turn against me?_

John grabbed his legs again, his hands steady and warm and Sherlock wanted to pull the man against him. He let himself be pulled up from the chair, those soothing hands rubbing up his sides.

"-No, -I -not. -I -know -you -true," John declared.

"-One hundred -percent?" Sherlock doubted it. John looked steadily back at him.

"-No -one -fake -so much -annoying -dick -all day. -Can't," John replied. Sherlock felt himself smile before he could think better of it and forced the expression away.

John reached a hand into his hair and pulled him down to kiss him softly.

"-We -alright," John stated.

_Hell._

~~/~~

It was stupidly easy to get John to believe in the code, running around the streets of London as a pair of ridiculous fugitives. He'd give Moriarty all the man wanted if it'd mean the genius underestimated him.

Richard Brook, the actor to play his arch nemesis. Clever. Sherlock cursed to himself as he got out of the vile woman's flat. John caught him by the shoulder and Sherlock let himself be pulled around.

"-Can -do -that -he?" John asked. "-change -self -make -you criminal?"

_Yes, he can. Fuck you, Mycroft, for not telling me when you put information in the hands of my enemies. Too confidential, was it?_

"Yes, he can. He's got my whole life story. That's what you do when you sell a big lie; you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."

"-Your -word -against -his," John followed along.

_Yes. What do you think he's been doing this whole time?_

"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that's to -"

_Have me admit to it. Complete the story. Three assassins. Of _course _they weren't for me. They're persuasion. _That was obvious. Three assassins – too obvious who they were for.

Two options, try to maintain his freedom in court – impossible, Moriarty had proven that, or let his reputation fail. Two options. He could go to jail and Moriarty would be free and _bored, _and John would be defenseless. Or he could resort to the contingency plan he'd designed when his detective work first started; John was right, the press always turned, it'd been an inevitability.

The fall from that building was going to _hurt._

John was waving at him, trying to get his attention. Sherlock turned.

"There's something I need to do," Sherlock answered. He needed a breakaway cable, as damn small as possible; hopefully it would slow him down enough. He'd find out. He'd have to set it up ahead of time, loop the cable down the side of the building and back up, the right length – turn it into a one story fall, something he could live through. He needed a back harness then and he'd wear his coat, that'd keep it all from John's sight -

"-What? -Can -I help you?" John asked.

"No, on my own," Sherlock ordered, starting away. He needed an accomplice. He always thought it'd be Mycroft, but Moriarty was too smart for that. A hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-stride.

"-Alright?" John asked, looking worried again.

"Fine," Sherlock lied. Nowhere close to fine. This was going to be...horrible. It was a fail safe, he reminded himself. If he could convince Moriarty to call it off, he could keep everything. It was just a contingency plan.

~~/~~

It seemed like the world was moving too fast. The case had gotten cocked up beyond reason. They'd almost been _arrested, _their home was being held by the cops and John didn't even care; he had to get home before the ambulance left. She'd die in route, if the paramedic was right about the entrance wound. She was _dying _and god, the cab couldn't move slower. And he wasn't going to think what the _fuck _Sherlock was doing sitting alone in a hospital lab at such a time. His _work? _John didn't believe it. But he'd have to find out later. For now -

There was no ambulance outside 221B. John felt his heart sink. He knew what that meant; they were heading for the hospital he'd just left and Mrs. Hudson was probably already dead.

Still, nothing could have stopped him from pushing inside to find what he could. He ripped the door open and it was like he was watching a dream. Adrenaline coursed through him, rushing his mind. Mrs. Hudson was standing just inside the door, helping that damn man with his stepladder, perfectly safe.

_I've gone mad._

"Oh, god, John! You made me jump!" Mrs. Hudson complained. "Is everything okay now with the police? Has um, Sherlock sorted it all out?"

No, worse. He hadn't gone mad. Sherlock had. That _fucker _was planning something, something worth lying to him about a gunshot wound to a loved one.

"Oh my god," John choked out.

And hell, he'd believed the man would have just left her. God, Sherlock. What would he say to the man? What the _fuck _was going on?

John turned and ran.

~~/~~

He couldn't talk to Sherlock on the phone. He didn't know what to say. He felt choked just looking at the man balancing on the edge of a building where it made _no _sense for him to be, but it didn't matter – Sherlock couldn't hear. John kept repeating his name into the phone, knowing full-well the man heard nothing at all. So Sherlock just talked, and John had never hated Baskerville so much for taking Sherlock Holmes' hearing away. He couldn't ask what was going on.

"I... I ...I can't come down, so we'll...we'll have to do it like this. This is...an apology. It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

Sherlock sounded like he was crying. _Sherlock Holmes, _his _partner,_ who'd apparently decided to be a jerk for the month of June and now was standing at the top of a building – what the _fuck _was going on?

"I'm a fake." Sherlock's voice broke. John wanted to pull the man to him, shoot anyone who even looked at them.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

_Oh god...no. _Moriarty had won. John had no idea how but he must be seeing the result. Moriarty had won that _damn _game the two of them had played. And he was watching the result of it.

_Sherlock, you idiot. _But he couldn't _talk. _

"I'm a fake," Sherlock declared. John wanted to crush his phone, but he couldn't stop his connection to this man.

John shoved his phone into his crooked-up shoulder to free his hands. It was worth a shot; he couldn't just say nothing.

"-Shut up. -Shut up. -First -time -we -met, -first -time, -you know -about -my -sister, -right," he gestured as widely as he could.

"I can't see you. I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice breaking again.

_Just come down. We'll be okay. _

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, a magic trick."

_Fucking stop it, _John wanted to order, walking forward.

"-No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move," Sherlock ordered and John stepped back into place.

_Okay. Okay, just calm down and come down. _John agreed, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

God, Sherlock sounded frantic. What could make such a man sound like that? Fuck, but he couldn't _ask._

_I love you, Sherlock. Whatever you're doing right now, don't. _

"Fuck!" John cursed aloud.

"This phone call. It's...er...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

_Oh, god. No. _No way, this wasn't going to happen. There was nothing in the world that could make Sherlock do something he didn't want to do.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said.

"No! Don't!" John shouted into the phone. He saw Sherlock gaze down at him and drop his phone onto the roof. The line clicked dead.

No, no no no no-

Sherlock looked up, away from him and tipped forward.

No no no no-

"Sherlock!" John screamed but he _knew _Sherlock couldn't hear him. Sherlock plummeted out of sight, too damn fast. John knew that building; there was nothing there to catch him but the concrete at the bottom.

John ran for him.

Something hit him, _hard, _enough to drop him to the cement, but John didn't give a shit. He had to see, Sherlock had to be okay-

A crowd had gathered at the bottom, barely keeping out of the blood. John dragged himself over to it, pushing his way toward them.

Sherlock's hair was so matted with blood it looked like he'd bathed in it. An arm hung at a bad angle, clearly broken, but the man wasn't writhing in pain and his eyes were open. John knew what that meant, but he pushed his way forward anyway. He had to check, it couldn't be, he'd been talking to the man just two seconds-

He got through the pushing crowd and grabbed Sherlock's arm. He couldn't get himself to grab the broken one. The skin was warm against his fingers, but too still. Death was so obvious – most people didn't know that. He held on to the arm too long but he couldn't believe it. He'd been talking to the man just ten seconds ago, proud of the man's brilliance.

There was no pulse. John felt his brain stutter to a halt as the crowd pulled him away. He had no doubt of it. There was no pulse. John let himself get pushed down to sit on the warm concrete before he fainted. It was the only reason in the world he'd let anyone take that body from him. He'd felt for a pulse for ten seconds and there'd been nothing at all. The paramedics were wheeling away a body, nothing more. Sherlock was that blood smeared all over the concrete that he couldn't put back.

"God, no."

The world blurred around his eyes and someone gripped his arm. He needed to breathe more.

Oh, god. He couldn't do this.

His browning was at home. John started to get up but a hand held him down. He had to be sure, first. Sure Sherlock was – John closed his eyes as bile rose up in his throat. He forced it down. He had to know.

He sat on the concrete, utterly unsure of what to do or where to go, as the crowd slowly built up around the blood and slowly dissipated again when there was nothing more to see. It started to get cold and he had utterly no idea where to go. He had a feeling he was waiting to see Sherlock come striding back out of those hospital doors. Ridiculous, and Sherlock would mock him for waiting.

Oh, god.

A black van pulled up at the kerb beside him. He got in and for once, no one was in the back seat with him. He was left alone and dropped off before the front of 221B.

John stood outside the door for too long and the limo waited. No doubt Mycroft had been informed. The car would take him anywhere he wanted to go. Anger cut through him for a moment, remembering Mycroft _idiotic _involvement. This was why you didn't fucking negotiate with terrorists – you ever knew what you were handing them.

He should call Ella. She was supposed to keep him from doing anything rash. She was the only one who'd understand; it wouldn't be rash. It'd have been a long time coming, before he'd met Sherlock Holmes.

John stared at the door waiting for him, utterly unsure what the _hell _he was supposed to do but stand in the middle of the street and break down. Sherlock had brought him raging back to life. John turned around, wanting to go back to the bloodstain, double check. Sherlock couldn't be dead – it just didn't _work. _

The limo was idling, waiting for him. No doubt the driver was watching him, ready to report to Mycroft. John cursed and fumbled with the front door. He needed to get inside.

"Here again, John? What's all this rushing about? What's Sherlock done now?" Mrs. Hudson complained, sticking her head out of her flat.

John closed his eyes and started for the stairs.

"John?"

"Call-" he swallowed. "Call Mycroft."

He started up the stairs, hoping to hell she wouldn't say anything else.

"Is it Sherlock? Is he alright then?" she called.

John made himself walk steadily upstairs.

_Why did he jump?_

"John!" Mrs. Hudson screeched and John slammed the flat door closed.

The flat wasn't quiet enough. He could still hear Mrs. Hudson scrambling around downstairs, the bus stop outside loudly announcing its route, two people laughing together below their window. It was just their flat and John found himself wanting Sherlock to get home so the man could scoff at the tragedy, tell him mourning was futile, an excess of emotion that by definition could do nothing to affect its cause, and hold him close and breathe into his hair.

John fell into his chair stiffly.

_What the fuck just happened?_

~~/~~


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 13

John pressed his fingers against his mouth, struggling not to start. Everything. Sherlock was everything. He gazed around the room blankly. Sherlock's belongings were everywhere here. He couldn't move them. He let his face fall into his hands but he couldn't cry. Shock, probably. He didn't want it to pass. It'd be worse, after. He couldn't imagine it being worse.

He heard Mrs. Hudson screech downstairs. He started to get up but the sound of sobbing followed. Right. He sat back down, trying to wrap his brain around what he'd been unable to say aloud. Jesus. John dropped his head into his hands again. Jesus.

~~/~~

John packed a bag of clothes before he went to the therapists' office. He couldn't stand straining every moment to hear Sherlock on the stairs, ready to berate him for not seeing through the marvelous scheme. He brought clothes, toiletries, and his gun. He sat in his therapist's office, knowing there was nothing she could do to make it better and she made him say it aloud. He obeyed and didn't know what use it had been.

He didn't tell her that they'd been together and wasn't sure if she'd guessed. Sherlock would have known.

He went back to the temporary flats he'd wandered into his first day out of Afghanistan. He'd been grateful for the mattress, the seat, the desk back then.

That genius, that captivating man had held everything that mattered. John dropped his bag in the closet and left again. He couldn't _sit_ ; he knew himself better than that. He walked to the park and wanted to visit Sherlock's grave but the man wasn't buried yet. It was just as well; he didn't want to see Molly. He sat down on a bench and pulled up Sherlock's number.

_**:How'd you do it?: **_He wrote and sent it before he let himself think too hard. He regretted it a moment later when he realized he was waiting for a response.

_**:Why'd you do it?: **_He sent next, to remind himself that he was texting a dead man. It was the right question, anyway. Why the hell had he jumped?

Sherlock didn't care about his public reputation; not really. And he hadn't been bloody _remorseful. _John cursed at the thought and pushed himself from the bench to stride deeper into the park. No, there was nothing on this earth that could convince him Sherlock had pulled some conspiracy-theorist-level scheme over him and the world. Sherlock had needed everything to have a _point _and that didn't have one.

John stopped, resting an arm against a tree. He pushed his face into his elbow, trying to force his brain above his emotions again. He couldn't break down here.

John rubbed his hand down his face, trying to breathe normally. For once he knew what Sherlock meant by _needing _a puzzle to be solved. This one wasn't optional. Why did Sherlock jump?

He started back for the flat, knowing he was falling apart again. He needed privacy.

_Okay, what do we know? _He heard Sherlock repeating in his brain, staring off at the skull and listing the facts, telling him to shut up and stop thinking; it was distracting, what were the _facts? _

Sherlock wouldn't have jumped because of his reputation and he wasn't a fraud, John had no doubt of that. But Sherlock had jumped, knowing full-well the probability that he'd die at the bottom.

John forced himself to look straight ahead as he marched up the steps to his flat. Christ.

~~/~~

He'd lost John. Sherlock let his body scream in pain and focused on it. Molly was pushing his arm back into its socket before she set the bone. He felt it snap back into alignment and his pain lessened slightly before he focused on his broken arm. Molly worked on him quickly, knowing the stakes.

He made himself stare at the ceiling and ignore how it was blurred. He couldn't stop crying, that was evident, so it was irrelevant.

There was no way to go after Moriarty's men without risking John, and no way to return while the assassins still existed. It wasn't worth it if there was any chance at all he'd come back only to find John with a bullet in his brain, the back of his head sprayed out over the couch. He couldn't come back.

~~/~~

John sat up, blinking rapidly. Christ, he needed something to do. He wasn't going to fall asleep. He needed to get out.

John rushed putting his shoes back on and walked out. There was a dull quiet hanging over the street around the block of flats. 9:00 PM – too early for the bars and too late for most children to be outside.

John walked away from it, heading for deeper into the city, toward the crowded strip of bars and shops he'd seen half a mile down the main road.

Sherlock. He'd go to the bar first.

Christ; stop. Just – stop.

He kept walking. As long as he was in public he couldn't break down, and his mind managed to stay above it all. He just had to stay out and keep walking.

Sherlock must have been coerced. That knowledge felt like it was set into his bones. Sherlock was not ashamed or a fraud; he must have jumped under duress. That would explain the telephone call, the lie that Sherlock had faked his own genius. But what could threaten the most brilliant man of his time? He was coming to understand just how little he'd known of the game Moriarty and Sherlock had been playing.

John cursed and ran his hands through his hair. Suburban London was endless, all shitty rowhomes and tall flat blocks, traffic and stores. He hated it, wanted it all to stop so he could _think. _

_Is this how Sherlock feels, all the time? _

John slammed his fist into the wall beside him. That genius brain was spilled over the concrete; he'd seen it happen. Why couldn't he even bloody remember what he was mourning?

_Felt. How Sherlock felt. _

They'd had so little time. They'd only just started; had barely begun to figure out what that was going to be like. He had so few memories of Sherlock's touch, his smell, his desire; how was he supposed to remember it all?

_Fuck. _

If Sherlock had had the choice to jump or get shot he'd have chosen the gun every time. John was sure of it. He'd want his killer to do it for real, get his hands dirty, and would never give Moriarty the pleasure of watching him lose, watching him jump.

John stopped in the middle of the street, letting some teenager with an ugly purse smash into him where she'd tried to cross behind him. The snipers. How had he forgotten? Mycroft had mentioned them, a whole gang of them living in their building for no apparent purpose. And there it was, to make Sherlock jump. Had Mycroft seen that coming, when he'd asked him to take care of Sherlock?

John started walking again, slowly heading for the park. The snipers hadn't been trained on Sherlock then, perhaps hadn't been trained on anyone they knew, just people Sherlock could see, a pregnant woman or a little boy. It wouldn't matter, Sherlock would not hold any more sentimental value for the one over the other.

Still, John wasn't sure Sherlock would have jumped. He could just imagine the man sneering.

_To save people so _dull _John? Would that really improve the world? People die every day; what would be the point? _

But then.. maybe he would have, just to save a stranger. Sherlock could care so much sometimes and put so little value on his own life.

_That was for the game though, _some part of John's brain argued. Sherlock would sacrifice anything to play the game, but for the _puzzle_, not for people. John found a park bench and sank into it.

Nothing added up; it was too simple. Moriarty had already played that game at the pool, threatening him to control Sherlock.

_And it'd worked, _John thought. Moriarty would have known with absolute certainty that Sherlock would jump if he pointed a gun at Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or him. John leaned his head back on his neck, resting it against the cold metal behind him. It was too simple, if he'd thought of it; Sherlock would have seen that move coming, and he'd have planned a solution.

John started home, feeling exhaustion drag at his mind. He knew what to do with grief. He'd go to work the next day and insist on staying there until he was too exhausted for safe practice, and then he'd file paperwork in the back, and then he'd walk around the city until his bones ached and he could fall asleep without feeling that overwhelming need to throw up. Nothing had changed at all since the war.

~~/~~

John rolled over on his cot and picked up his vibrating phone.

"Yeah?"

"John, it's Mycroft. How are you?" his voice sounded polished, smooth, concerned. John felt hate lick at him. "Right," Mycroft answered, like he'd said something.

_Enough puzzles._

"Listen, I have been wondering how involved you'd like me to be in arranging the funeral -" he started. John felt the tide rising up. They weren't doing this. He cleared his throat, cutting the man off.

"Right. Yes," he said.

"Should I handle it then?" Mycroft asked.

_God._

"Yes," John answered. Mycroft didn't reply. The silence was horrible. John swung his feet down from the bed and sat up. He wasn't getting any more sleep. Sherlock Holmes, soft damn hair and standing at the edge of his bedroom 'how do people do this?'. John choked out a laugh.

"John?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, alright," John answered. He wanted off the phone. "Goodbye,"

"I'll see -"

John hung up. He had to get to work.

~~/~~

"Christ, John, what are you doing here?" Sarah demanded as soon as he got to the front desk.

"I need to not think," he ordered. Her face softened. Yes, then. Good. He started for his office and she walked around the desk to grab his arm.

"Are you sure? I took you off the schedule for weeks," she said.

_Give me work. _

"Not with the patients; I'm not sure you're safe to diagnose anything right now," she ordered.

Right. John nodded. Paperwork. He'd do paperwork. That was fine.

~~/~~

Molly dropped an envelope on his chest. Sherlock sat up from the couch slowly, careful not to jar his arm or ribs, and peered at the paper, the sound of Moriarty's laughter ringing in his ears, crowing that he'd been too slow to keep up yet _again. _Unlikely.

The envelope's address was typed in a classic font; no information there.

_**To Mr. Kennish, C.O Molly Hooper, 523 Little Hanging Road, Apt GH 2, London, England**_

The whole thing could have come from a bank, complete with a return envelope inside, like an automatic forwarding. If Moriarty had predicted his actions, he'd predicted them perfectly. Mycroft was more likely.

He poured the envelope's contents into his hand and felt himself nod gratefully. A mobile phone, passport, birth certificate, Spanish and French ID cards, 10,000 pounds cash. And a return address, already paid postage. Sherlock shredded the envelope in his fingers, leaving the bits over Molly's floor. She'd clean them up before anyone visited.

**:I trust you'll make this quick? MH:**

~~/~~

He didn't kill for revenge. His commanding officers had pounded it into them. They shot down the people who were actively threatening them, not civilians, not potential enemies. The assassins had already done their damage and had moved on. They were no longer threats and he didn't kill for revenge. It wasn't easy to remember that, most nights.

**:Did you do it for me?:**

John cursed himself, fiddling with his phone while he watched the stupid animation of the message being sent out. He wanted to recall it. If he'd had the chance to say one last thing to the man, that wouldn't have been it.

**:I loved you, you idiot.:**

John let his head sink into his hands, still gripping his phone.

Fuck, but he wasn't going to be the same man on the other side of this.

~~/~~

Sarah came to kick him out of the clinic every day at midnight, whether it was her shift or not. John walked the city, afterward, keeping his gun loaded and praying he'd get into a fight.

John got back to his flat to see Lestrade pounding on his door, a pile of duffel bags at his feet.

"Come on, then, Watson, just open the damn door," he was shouting, sounding resigned.

"I would, if you'd just," John started, holding his keys, but the joke didn't come out right. Lestrade glanced over and blinked rapidly before shifting out from in front of the door.

"Oh. Right," he said.

_It's open, _John remembered benignly, putting his keys in his pocket and doing his best not to think about anything else.

"Mrs. Hudson asked me to bring you some clothes," Lestrade said, glancing down at the bags near John's feet. John nodded and opened the door. He'd have to keep it locked now.

"Police database," Lestrade said, sounding like he was apologizing for something. John moved the clothes into the flat and turned around to face the man in his doorway.

"Yeah, right," John replied, trying to figure out what social thing he was supposed to be doing now. Thanking the man for the clothes, or shouting at him for not trusting Sherlock, probably. Neither sounded appealing.

"Look, I've done some thinking, and I do honestly believe Sherlock was inn-"

Right.

"Thanks for the clothes, then,' John managed as he closed the door. It shut with a definitive _click _and John rest his head against the chill wood veneer_._

"Look, I'm going to prove Sherlock was innocent!" Lestrade's shout came through the door. "Moriarty's dead, you know. He shot himself before Sherlock jumped. It's over. It's the least I can do, clear his name. "

It really, really was. John went to take a shower. He wasn't dirty but there was nothing to do in the flat and he knew better than to stop.

~~/~~

Sherlock had killed himself to keep someone from being shot. Probably him or Mrs. Hudson. John wasn't convinced it helped at all to know that. He forced himself to concentrate on typing in all the medical files and blocking out the rest of the world. He needed something to _do, _to keep his mind off of it but still the thought nagged at him. Why did Sherlock _jump? _Something still didn't quite fit.

John slammed his hand down on the desk. The sound reverberated in the little, dark room and John was glad the file room was cut off from the rest of the clinic. But it was too _simple. _How had he missed this? He could practically hear Sherlock hiss at him, frustrated with how unerringly _slow _he was. There had been three snipers _living in his flat block, _with Moriarty trying to get the world to believe that Sherlock was a fraud, and he hadn't thought that maybe they were planning on bringing those to things together?

John stilled, barely daring to breathe as he stared blankly at the computer screen. Sherlock would have seen that coming. There was no way he would have been fooled. He would have connected 'assassins living with us' and 'Moriarty is going to try to coerce you into something' and _not _met him on the top of a bloody highrise. Sherlock _would have _thought of that, and John had a moment staring at his laptp, wondering if his best friend had been a fraud after all. John slowly pushed his chair back, his heart beating like a maniac. No. Sherlock had thought of it, which mean Sherlock would have _planned. _

Sherlock had had some goal, up on the top of that building. Had it gone horribly wrong or had this been exactly the idea? Moriarty had shot himself, Sherlock's name was being cleared; if only he were alive he'd have won.

And Sherlock had done so many things that had seemed desperately impossible before. John pulled himself out of his chair and strode for the door. He was getting the postmortems. And if he was wrong and a crazed man in denial, he was going to walk out of the hospital and shoot himself in the head.

John stopped, halfway through the clinic's sliding doors. Right.

He needed to return to the army. Now. His leg had 'healed', his arm was back to almost full motion, acceptable as it hadn't affected his marksmanship or his field surgery and he'd certainly kept both in practice living with Sherlock Holmes. But want it or no he wasn't going to _survive _the civvy life limping around with a wife in suburbia.

He'd needed Sherlock to survive here and now he was at least better off with someone else's head to aim his SIG at.

He'd see the pictures and if he was wrong and Sherlock was gone, he was going back to Afghanistan.

~~/~~

He called Lestrade in the cab. The man would have had to make a call on whether or not it'd really been a suicide, with another man dead at the top of the building. The detective picked up on the first ring.

"John, I'm -"

"Greg-"

"I'm glad you called, I've had a few-"

"I need the pictures," John demanded, tipping his head back to stare at the soft ceiling above him.

"What?" Greg asked, clearly lost.

"The postmortems. I just-" John felt his voice about to catch and stopped to clear his throat. "need them."

"John-" he said, and it sounded like a warning.

"Just -give them to me, yeah?" John demanded, staring at the uneven stain in the fabric above his head.

"Molly's got them," Greg said finally.

"Thank you," John said and swallowed heavily. His stomach churned horribly. He needed to get off this phone.

"Look, if there's anything-" Lestrade started and John felt himself nod firmly.

"Right. No. Thank you. For the pictures. Nice night, yeah?" John tried.

"Er – yeah, night," Lestrade answered and John hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment, cursing Sherlock. Of course they'd be in Molly's morgue; he'd jumped off her building. How could he have been so cruel?

_As to not think of where they'd take my body, am I responsible for that?_ He heard Sherlock scoff in his head and John sighed and picked up his coat as he headed out into the sun.

_Yeah, Sherlock, you are. _

John clenched his teeth as he strode down the outside stairs of the motel-style building.

_If you didn't want to be responsible for where you die, don't bloody kill yourself. Coerced or no. No one living was more bloody important than you._ The arrogant sod should have known that. And why _there? _He'd picked the place; John had found the blog entry about it. Why the fuck would he chose Molly's building, when she'd have to see him rolling in?

_Fuck, Sherlock. _

He got a cab for the last fourteen blocks. He was starting to seriously doubt and he couldn't let that bloody hope bloom.

There was one totally insensible thing about Sherlock's death. One thing that just didn't _fit. _Crowds didn't pull doctors away from men bleeding out on the concrete. They just didn't. Ever. They didn't pull friends away either, but he'd been forcibly removed from Sherlock.

And _lord, _even for jumping off a hospital, that medical team had arrived too fast, like they'd been waiting for it. It just didn't _fit, _like it didn't fit that Sherlock had been blindsided by someone going after his acquaintances. That he'd been blindsided by _anything. _Beaten, fine, yes. But blindsided? Not seeing why Moriarty would want to meet him on the roof that day, not planning for it?

~~/~~

Molly was back at work, he saw when he got to the morgue doors. He wasn't surprised she'd needed to hide in menial tasks too. She was standing by the computer inside, typing something up, looking vaguely annoyed. John pulled open the morgue door and it squeaked horribly. Molly jerked silently and whirled to face him.

"John," she greeted, running her hands down her lab coat to smooth it.

"Morning," he said, trying to keep his eyes on her.

_Oh god, Molly._ She'd had to workby Sherlock's body. He'd have quit, for sure.

"John?" she asked and he realized he'd waited too long.

"I need the postmordems," he said. It came out like a croak. She blinked at him, her eyes wide, looking like she'd figured out why.

"I just can't – uh -"

Too personal. John stopped.

"So they're not classified or anything?" he asked instead, knowing they weren't. Her eyes widened even more.

"Uh...no," she said, finally, turning to the drawers beneath the lab countertop. She fingered through the files and turned back, a manila folder in her hands. She glanced around the room like she was considering a way to escape. She handed the file to him though and stood staring at him, wringing her hands like she'd just done a horrible act.

"I – uh -thanks," he said and turned to leave.

"Oh! You can't take 'um out of here!" she called and John blinked, glancing at the open file drawers. Right. Of course. Government property, evidence policy. He knew that.

"Yeah," he answered her, putting the file down on the counter top. He exhaled heavily and decided it didn't matter that Molly was watching. He put his hand on the counter beside the file to brace himself and flipped the cover open. Examiner's chart.

Extensive head damage, fractured skull, left arm, ribs. C.O.D: force of impact. John swallowed and skipped to the bottom of the page. Examiner: Molly Hooper.

_What the fuck? _

"God, why did they make you do this one?" John asked, emotion licking at him. He could become furious, about this. He looked up to see Molly shrugging quietly, looking uncomfortable.

"I requested it. I -er – I wanted to see him. You know, one last time? Before -" she started, still wringing her hands.

_God, Molly._

John felt his emotions die again and nodded and glanced down at the folder on the metal hospital counter.

There were two options. Either Sherlock was alive and Mrs. Hudson and he still had snipers waiting to kill them when they found out and John was going to kill them all and hope Mycroft could keep him from a death sentence or Sherlock was dead and John was going to walk out of this building and find the closest recruitment office.

_And _hope_ the assassins keep their agreement not to kill us?_ John felt his jaw set. That was Sherlock's job; he solved the puzzles. John's solution had to be much more simple. An assassin had standing orders to kill Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock were alive; that was threat enough.

John nodded stiffly to himself and flipped the examiner's chart to reveal the next photo.

_God. _There was no doubt; it was Sherlock. John wasn't sure what he'd expected. Some close look-alike or a wax doll or what, but his breath was jerked out of him by what he got – a photo of his lover and best damn friend in the world lying very dead on a mortuary table, with his face smashed in and his arm going the wrong way, blood flowing over Molly's table. He flipped through the next ones, photos of a tag punctured through a toe, postmortem bruising and cataloged fractures on a corpse that hadn't even gone cold yet. The color was still there, blood that had not yet seeped away from his friend's skin. He was joining the army. Now.

_Kill them first. _

"I'm going back to the fusiliers," he announced into the quiet room as he flipped the folder closed.

"The what?" she asked and John had to swallow heavily.

"Army," he said.

His career was over; he'd been publicly outed in that damn article. It didn't matter. He wouldn't shoot himself if it meant his comrades would have to find him.

"Oh," she said quickly, like she'd just realized something.

He turned to face her, feeling his back straighten into military style as he tried to school his face into something vaguely resembling composure.

"Do you have to? I mean, you kinda belong here, you know? I mean, not here as in the morgue. Oh my god- no, but -you know-"

John nodded swiftly, trying to get her to calm down.

"Yeah, I have to," he said firmly.

"But-"

"I don't -" he started too loudly and stopped, searching for words. "fancy ...shooting myself, is all," he finished. Right. Too personal. Molly's eyes widened yet again. She stared at him, looking about to cry.

"Right. Well. Now we've had that. Goodbye, Molly," he said. She nodded, hugging her arms around herself.

"Take care, John," she said softly as he pushed the doors open again, ignoring the loud squeak. He had a job to do, first.

~~/~~

John swallowed heavily and forced himself forward, trying not to shuffle or fiddle with his nametag or do anything but walk with the crowd of sleep-deprived doctors entering the building for the afternoon shift, flowing easily past the banks of equally sleep-deprived security guards. He could have flashed them a Tube monthly pass and they'd have waved him by, he thought, breaking off from the crowd toward the mental illness ward. That was where the real tranquilizers were.

~~/~~

**:He went to see your postmortems MH:**

**:Reaction?:**

**:Belief MH:**

~~/~~

He had to go inside. John strove for the door of 221B, forcing himself to unlock the door without hesitation. He strode inside, not pausing to think and clambered up the carpeted steps. He'd get the papers, the wall of contacts and connections Sherlock had built up on Moriarty, and leave. He needed nothing else, here.

John turned the knob on the flat door and almost smacked his head against the door when he strode forward, expecting it to open beneath his hand. The knob didn't turn and John had to back up quickly, blinking rapidly.

Locked. Of course. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and ignored how his hands were perfectly steady, flawlessly precise. He unlocked the door and strode forward, trying to regain the feeling of being on a mission; the emotionless efficiency that came with too many brutal assignments.

John pushed open the door and automatically wrinkled his nose against the musk of layered dust. He stepped inside, trying to shove down his emotions at the belongings scattered over Sherlock's desk; the coffee mug, the still-open laptop, the random papers and post-its and ballpoint pens

_Felt tips are _hateful, _John._

He'd forgotten how much _paper _there was. Papers and folders were piled on every available surface and strewn over most of the floor. John stepped around them carefully, walking towards what really mattered; the display of information on Moriarty taped up behind the couch.

He climbed up onto the couch, balancing a knee on the armrest to start carefully collecting the pictures, newspaper clippings, government files and Wikipedia pages pasted there.

There were piles of papers behind the couch. John blinked rapidly, his documents in hand, and got off the couch slowly to put the Moriarty files down. It wouldn't be unlike Sherlock to keep important files in the least accessible part of the house.

_Especially given how much he was hiding from me, by the end. _

John winced at the thought and shoved the couch out of the way.

Crap. ASL words. Piles and piles of them. John crouched by the closest pile and leaned against the wall as he picked it up.

A list of different animal names. Useless, probably, but John had a feeling Sherlock sorted which words were most valuable by the degree of accessibility in the apartment.

He had no need to be learning these, now, John told himself, glancing over the different piles. Animal words, holidays, different types of fruit, astronomy terms. John laughed, the sound too loud in the room, holding up the last list. Moon, sun, stars, orbit.

He carried the piles out to the front of the room, wanting to compare it to the piles Sherlock had left out for him on the coffee table.

Crimes, human anatomy, insults. John laughed again, shaking his head, and went to explore the piles left on beside the ugly lamp.

An entire stack too big to grip in one hand of furniture terms.

John moved from pile to pile, collecting them all on the coffee table, keeping them in the order Sherlock had subtly placed them in.

He ended up with a banker's box full of the things, only barely topped with the small folder on Moriarty's operation.

John walked into the kitchen and his amusement died as quickly as it'd grown. The place was empty, stripped of Sherlock's trays of vials, his microscope, his boxes of clean slides and droppers.

_Damn it._ John braced himself against the kitchen table, the rough wood familiar against his hand. He had to get out of here.

John turned and grabbed the banker's box, moving swiftly for the door.

He was only halfway down the steps when he heard Mrs. Hudson opening her door. He moved faster, hoping he could get out before -

"John?"

God damn.

John turned at the base of the steps, unwilling to walk away from her. She was Mrs. Hudson; the closest thing to a mother Sherlock had ever had. Sherlock would never forgive him if he just walked away from her.

She was dressed in a colored dress and dark stockings, unassuming jewelry and flat shoes. Nothing seemed to have changed at all, with her, but her smile was tight.

"Will you go with me to the grave?" she asked. John glanced down, into the pile of papers in his arms.

Of course. It'd been...awhile. How long? The funeral must have passed. A body wouldn't last that long, out of the ground. Had Mycroft called him about it? John didn't remember.

"I can't go alone again," Mrs. Hudson admitted. John nodded.

~~/~~

**:This is taking too long MH:**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 14

He wasn't ready to do this. John stared at the grave, glad Mrs. Hudson was gone. He couldn't stand her _stories, _the gunshots in the morning and the body parts and the little abnormalities that had slowly set John back to actually caring about what people had done around him; the man that had pulled him out of all that and made him laugh. 'Welcome to London'. John closed his eyes, feeling sick, hearing the crunch of a body hitting pavement.

He was supposed to say something. That was obvious. He wasn't coming back here for a long damn time.

"Hmm. Alright," John said, swallowing heavily. "You told me once," he started, trying to look away from the grave. He cleared his throat. God. "that you weren't a hero."

Jumping over rooftops. Telling Sarah 'it's okay, you'll be okay' so softly, like consoling a terrified beast. Tearing the bomb off him without a care in the world for the sharpshooter pointed at his skull. Bullshit, not a hero.

"Um. There were times when I didn't even think you were human but -"

God, that was true. Sherlock snarling, not sleeping, shouting that he didn't have friends just to be left alone. Begging him back, only to be completely sidetracked by the solved puzzle.

"Let me tell you this; you were the best man, the most human – human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you've told me a lie. There. So."

He could almost _see _Sherlock squint at him for that, trying to figure out for a moment how anyone could really be that stupid, but Sherlock wasn't there to mock him and John could barely breathe. "There," he added. Done. Fuck it. It was time to go kill someone and join the army or shoot himself in the head.

John tried to walk away but he couldn't just go; he wanted to _touch. _God, how Sherlock had smelled, how he'd hugged and curled up against him in the morning, how he'd fucked and been fucked, his eyes bright with wonder. John ran his hand over the gravestone and immediately felt like a fool, feeling the cold, useless stone beneath his fingertips. He pulled his hand away.

"I was so alone and I owe you so much," he said, before walking away. Sherlock wasn't alive. He _knew _that, he'd seen the body crumble against the concrete; there was no way to survive that fall. He had to move on, kill the snipers to protect the people that were left and let it all be done. But he couldn't just accept it.

John turned back despite himself, hating it, but if begging could bring him back he'd do it a thousand times.

"Oh and just one more thing. One more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don't be -"

He still couldn't bloody say it, damn him.

"Dead," he forced. He wasn't going to cry, damn it. Not here. "Would you do that just for me. Just – stop it. Stop this."

And god _damn _it, it was useless. He was weeping. Fuck. John forced himself to attention, letting his mind fill in the sounds of chattering Arabic and English commands. His emotions shut down slowly, dragging themselves back under control. John turned away from the gravestone.

He had to find Sebastian Moran. He'd never done this without a paper trail before. He couldn't just call up his army contacts and ask if anyone knew the man.

~~/~~

Sherlock watched John walk away from the grave.

_Did Moriarty see this coming? _Burn the heart out of him – by burning _John's. _Appropriately brilliant but Sherlock doubted it. Moriarty would never accept letting Sherlock Holmes live, not after he'd promised to kill him. No, the man hadn't planned it this way. He'd just won anyway.

His arm was mostly healed, now. His flight left in six hours.

~~/~~

John wrestled his way out of his sheets, grasping after Sherlock.

"_Fuck," _he panted, falling back to the mattress. Grief settled over him again and John pushed himself up to sitting, pulling his hands through his hair. He glanced at the clock and cursed again. 3:00 AM. Shite.

John walked across the room to flick on the overhead light and stood over his desk, staring at the maps and papers and names spread across it.

Sebastian Moran. Spanish military colonel and sharpshooter, alleged history of kidnapping, assault, and murder. A string of girlfriends, ending in a failed marriage with Sylvia Moran, formally Sylvia Taylor. History of alcoholism, according to Sylvia Moran. No children, no known employment, no known address. Fan of rugby, American football, and gun rights.

Nothing surprising. John sighed, flipping through the folder on the man Mycroft had given him. Useless information now when _fuck, _it could have saved his partner. There was nothing surprising in the folder but the reference to American football. Drug use and alcohol were common self-remedies for PTSD. Most of his friends abused to help moving on. Still, John ran his finger under the word. Sylvia had called it 'alcoholism'. John focused on that, reminded of Sherlock insisting _Why hound? _Why say alcoholic? None of his friends called it that, even when their drinking flipped over that border.

He had to call Sylvia Moran – he had to ask _why say alcoholic? _It was a thin lead, beyond meaningless, but he had no other way of finding his quarry so it would have to do.

God, he had no idea how to do this. This part was Sherlock's job.

He bought a new phone without a contract on the west side of the city and took the tube to the south to get the phone card. The sun was barely lighting the road by the time he was walking back across the small parking lot of the flat block. He felt better, having something to do. Almost like he was going to pull out of this, until he remembered that none of this was going to bring his lover home.

"Hello?" a light, cheerful woman's voice picked up the phone. In English, John realized gratefully, remembering belatedly that there was no guarantee of that.

"Hello, this is Officer Darrell Hopkins. If you remember I was on the case concerning your husband Sebastian?" John tried, reading off the name on the case file.

"Ex-husband," the woman corrected, annoyed.

_People don't like telling you things, John. They love to contradict you, _Sherlock's voice muttered at him.

"I just wanted to confirm, you said he was an alcoholic but he didn't go to A.A meetings or anything that would get him professionally diagnosed-"

"What the fuck? Yes, he did A.A, he just went under a different name. Who is this again?"

"Really? That's not in his file," John stated, flipping through the papers again.

"You didn't ask," the woman scolded. "Now I'm sorry, but it's the middle of the night, so unless this is urgent -"

_Oh. Whoops. _

"Yes, of course, ma'am. I'm so sorry to bother you," John stammered.

_Crap. _

"Yes. Good morning, then," she answered, and the line clicked off. John glanced at his phone, surprised, and realized he hadn't managed to get the name Moran had been using.

_It doesn't matter, _he realized belatedly, closing the file folder. A.A meetings didn't exactly have searchable guest books.

3:45 AM. Nothing to do. John sat down slowly, staring at the desk top. There was nothing more to do. That was not good.

_**Underwear – **_American word for pants - the next word on the pile of ASL he'd never gotten to. John shook his head.

_Why would that be more useful than holidays, Sherlock?_

Still, he'd learned the word as soon as he glanced at it and John shook his head, flipping to the next page.

_**Pants– **_American word for trousers; he already knew that one. His had gotten caught on that same damn drainpipe climbing back up the building for Sherlock's 'shortcut' home from Angelo's.

_**Socks, bras, shirt – also volunteer, apply. Wrench – add 'agent' to become 'plumber', 'mechanic'. Machine – **_

_God, -damn, -two -dresses -blood covered -in -washing machine -why? _

_**Pretend**_** - **

"_-You -pretend -listen -often. -We -pretend -better -now. -Worse -why?" Sherlock asked. He leaned forward toward the curator. __"That's fascinating," he stated, interrupting the man halfway through a word. _

John laughed quietly and closed his eyes, grief spiking sharply through his chest in a way it hadn't done in weeks.

_Fuck. _He shouldn't do this to himself. Still, he flipped to the next word.

_**Hide – **_Push an 'a' classifier under the non-dominant hand; look small and tense.

That would have been a good one to know, John thought, copying it quickly before he flipped to the next sheet.

He pulled himself up in time for work and left the house, a pile of ASL words in his back pocket, trying not to remember how useless it was.

~~/~~

Molly knew she was breaking a promise Sherlock would never forgive. She was supposed to be taking care of John – had sworn she'd bring him food, 'make him eat or sleep, give him whatever would be 'effective for the shock'. As if 'shock' was the only thing John was going to feel. Molly would almost want to strangle the genius, except he'd looked so intensely serious about John's care, even as he'd woefully underestimated it.

Molly had needed Lestrade's contacts to find the man at all – he hadn't gone back to Baker Street. She'd found the apartment, had visited four times but no one was ever home. Greg said he'd caught John there after an all-night shift, which must have been some time near 5:00 AM. Molly tried then, bringing shepherd's pie for the man, but no one answered. She left the tupperware by his door to get stolen.

~~/~~

**:How is he?:**

**:Grieving. MH:**

~~/~~

Molly held her breath, peering down the street, thinking for once she'd caught the man. She breathed in relief as John Watson walked under a streetlamp, obviously on his way back to the flat.

He looked mostly okay, she thought, walking down the street to meet him. His skin was clean and shaved, his clothing looser but washed. He looked fine; he'd kept up appearances. He met her eyes and his gaze slid past her unnaturally.

_He's not fine._

"Molly," he greeted, walking toward the staircase up to the second floor flats. "Thanks for the uh-casserole".

She nodded, trying to figure out what on earth she was supposed to say. John climbed up the steps and Molly followed quietly, trying to pretend she was helping.

John led her to his flat and opened the door without even touching a key. Molly blinked and glanced inside. The flat was almost entirely empty. Her tupperware sat clean beside a banker's box of papers on the desk, apparently the only items in the room that weren't bolted down by the landlord to keep from being lifted. Other than perhaps the desk chair.

John sat on his bed and didn't look at her. She waited for as long as she could stand, wanting to kill Sherlock for what he'd done to this man. John shifted slightly on the bed and she suddenly felt unwelcome.

"Okay, well-" Molly tried, unsure what to say.

John nodded. Molly wiped her hands down her pants and glanced around the barren room for something that would start a conversation. How could there be so little in this flat?

John cleared his throat and looked at his lap and Molly knew she was being kicked out. She wiped her hands down her pants again and said goodbye as she walked away, glad to be leaving the horrible silence there.

~~/~~

He hadn't realized that Sherlock had saved him from this, John thought as he waited through yet another ex-drunk's story. He'd been in an almost identical beige flat when he'd come back from the war. Had nothing to blog about, no one to distract him from wishing himself back in a war where his skills made sense. There was no point in being a sharpshooter in suburban England. Sebastian Moran had taken the only open job position.

John scoffed out a laugh at the thought, only to shift as the audience's eyes caught on him for a moment. He didn't respond and they shifted back away.

Sherlock had been the only thing that'd kept him from the drink for real.

God, he missed the man.

It was remarkably easy to pretend to be an alcoholic. John walked into meeting after meeting and he didn't see a single counselor look at him askance. He told each one that the place had been recommended by a friend – Sebastian – and had so far only been pointed to a scrawny, geeky-looking man in his forties that didn't match Mycroft's fuzzy picture of the shooter. Still, it would only be a matter of time before he found the man, if he was going to A.A in the city. There were only so many meetings.

~~/~~

**:He has joined A.A. MH: **

**:Why?: **

**:It's in the name, isn't it? MH:**

~~/~~

"I have to bring up your service record, please hold," the grim-sounding man ordered. John nodded quickly and shifted his phone over to the other shoulder. He stared at the damn beige walls, imagining Sherlock stalking into the room, glaring at him for finding anything more important than the _work. _

_The game is on, John! _

"Captain Watson?"

"Yes?" John croaked. He cleared his throat rapidly.

_Damn it. _

"Your honorable discharge says you have a shoulder wound?" the bureaucrat asked.

"Yes, but it no longer impedes much movement. I can shoot with it as well as ever," John promised.

_You've proven that, I should think. _Sherlock would smirk at the shared secret.

The man was too quiet on the phone.

"The psychosomatic limp has gone away completely," John insisted, gritting his teeth.

"That's good to hear," the man said simply. This wasn't going well. "Captain Watson; you know your shoulder damage was severe. You are not cleared for active duty."

"I'll be a field medic," John compromised.

"I'm afraid that is not feasible. You would be in danger, sir,"

"Fuck. It's a bloody war. What the hell do you expect?" John growled.

"Your vulnerability would endanger your crew, soldier. You have done your duty, stand down," the man ordered harshly.

_Yes. Give me orders. Please._

"Please," John stated and cursed, almost throwing his phone across the room before he regained his temper.

"We cannot deploy you, Captain. Can I refer you to domestic positions?"

"Thank you for your time," John replied.

"I'm sorry, Captain."

John hung up and tossed his phone onto the floor by his feet. He let his head sink into his hands and struggled to keep his composure.

He wasn't going to live through this one.

~~/~~

**:He attempted to rejoin the army. I did not interfere. I'm not certain it was wise. MH:**

~~/~~

"John?" Sarah called, ducking her head into the file room. John glanced up from his computer screen.

"Do you want to go back to working with patients? You're wasted back here."

John forced a smile. Apparently it'd been long enough to warrant him being safe with prescriptions again.

_That's illogical. Nothing has changed, _Sherlock snarled at him.

_I know. Let it go. _

John cleared his throat.

"I'm not sure that's wise," he replied honestly.

"Come now, John. It's been six months; you're living again – I know, I know, don't look at me like that. You're not...better. But you can go back to work," she replied.

_She's an idiot._

John cleared his throat again.

"Sure," he replied. It would give him free time between patients – he'd have to bring his ASL. Anything to keep from thinking.

~~/~~

**:I'm still learning your fucking sign language, do you know that?: JW**

_~~/~~_

**:It's been too long. You must come back MH:**

**:I am not coming back:**

~~/~~

The door opened halfway through some woman's speech about her dead child. John had no idea how but was almost _certain _he'd found his quarry. He wasn't Sherlock; he didn't have a soldier's gait separated and identified in his mind; he didn't have eyes in the back of his head. He just had a damn strong feeling, so he only turned as much as the rest of the crowd and turned back with them, never glancing at the man he might be shooting. He turned back to the speaking drunk and _waited, _feeling old habits sink back into his bones. He'd always been stupidly good at looking harmless, but he was dealing with a man that had once had him in his sights. He'd have to be damn careful. He already felt a target painted on his back.

He stayed with the crowd as they got up from the damn plastic chairs and headed over to the overly brewed, cheap coffee. A.A was like a really bad singles event afterward, all wax paper cups and personal questions. He turned to see Moran so that he could know for sure. It was him; there was no doubt.

"So, how long were you caught in it?" a woman asked, looking sympathetic as she glanced over at him from filling her cup. He'd already learned to stay away from the coffee – to avoid conversations like this but today he needed it, needed to blend in, needed someone to wait with or to walk him out if Sebastian Moran left first.

He wouldn't kill him tonight.

"Awhile," he answered, doing his best to approximate his old harmless closed-mouth smiles.

Next week, he'd get him before the meeting.

"It's your first day here, isn't it? I'm sorry, there's just a look people get. You know, when they've got nothing left? It takes some time to build your life up again," she stated. John glanced back at her, surprised. She was smarter than Sarah then, apparently.

He swallowed heavily.

"Seven months," he answered. Her eyebrows shot up.

_Eight now, _he corrected himself too late.

"Wow. My mistake. But it does take a long time. Three years sober now for me and I'm only just starting to actually be glad to be away from it," she said, glancing back at her cup and pulling it away before it overflowed. She moved to stand in front of him, blocking his view of Moran.

_Perfect._

It was a strange rule of A.A meetings that one could ask about the worst, most debilitating time of another person's life and talk about the destruction of families but no one ever, ever asked what got them to drink in the first place. Family history was acceptable to discuss but never to ask for and almost no one mentioned the partner's suicide that started the whole thing. A strange etiquette John was absurdly grateful for.

~~/~~

John had done a suspect retrieval before, but only just the once. Interrogation was a fundamental part of an urban guerrilla war – there was no getting around it. It was one of those things that had soldiers coming home and referring to 'the things they'd seen'. No details. You just didn't tell your civvy girlfriend about this.

After a certain point, training didn't matter. It just wasn't that hard to kill someone, even up close. A safe capture was harder but he didn't have any questions for the man; Sherlock was dead and he knew where the other assassins were. Sherlock had already found their permanent addresses. That would make it easier.

John waited in the alley by the front door the next week, hoping Moran would arrive so he could be done with the nastiness.

The A.A crowd slowly tricked in, not even glancing at the alleyway where he hid, finally leaving the parking lot full and dark.

Damn it, but it was cold and his shoulder ached with it. He blew on his hands, knowing he'd need them warm, and shoved them into his pockets, hating how the cold made each breath into a damned obvious little cloud, even through the ski mask. That hadn't been a problem in the Middle East. He'd just have to not breathe, when it came time.

John squinted at his watch in the dark. If it came time. Surely Moran wouldn't bother showing up twenty minutes in to an hour-long session.

Twenty minutes later John was starting to think it was useless either way. He wouldn't have much time before the speeches petered out and the parking lot was flooded with alcoholic witnesses again. Of course, he'd barely thought that before a silver sedan pulled into the lot.

John waited, feeling a grim determination settle over him as he watched Sebastian Moran walk from his car. The sedan beeped twice and its lights flashed, and John was grateful the alleyway was too far away to be lit by it. John stepped behind the man just as he moved to reach for the building's door handle and pressed his needle into the clean-shaven neck. Moran grunted and started to turn but the tranquilizer did its job. John caught the body as it fell and pulled the man into his arms, doing his best to look like a friend with a very unhelpful drunk man. John leaned the limp form over the sedan bonnet, propping him up his his knee and left arm and searched the man's pockets for his keys.

He dragged the man into the back seat, sickly aware that unlike Afghanistan, the whole digital world was watching him here; probably in glorious 3D, HD, surround sound. Still, he'd seen all the tricks that had puzzled Sherlock and utterly stumped the police and at the end of the day, the word was to avoid fancy-ass games and tricks that Sherlock could always solve.

Sherlock couldn't solve the random masked man drugs a citizen, dumps him in his own car, and kills him variant. He needed 'Rache' scratched into the floor, a damn cellphone password that made no sense at all. And Sherlock could still never give the police a 100% solved case rate, because there were simply too many murders, too many suspects, and too little evidence.

He just needed to make it take more than 48 hours to get them pointing at him and they'd never convict him.

He drove the body to the west, to the ugly part of the city where the tourists never went. He parked under a bridge and prepared a second vial of the tranquilizer. This wasn't going to solve the endless list of questions around Sherlock's death, but it'd keep Mrs. Hudson safe.

Somehow he found himself flicking the syringe and letting the drug dribble out to ensure against air bubbles. John snorted at himself softly and pushed the syringe into the man's arm. He waited a full forty five minutes, until he could feel the corpse start to cool, before he took off his mask and got out of the car. Death could be a hard thing to ensure with a tranquilizer.

He walked toward the train station, the ski mask in his pocket, and dumped the mask and syringe in the trash in the second underground station. It was going to take months to find the next body; he'd buy a new mask.

~~/~~


	5. Chapter 5

_It didn't make _sense, Sherlock thought, peering at the photographs of Sebastian Moran. The man was clearly dead, liver mortis had long since set in and dyed the man's back the ugly purple of settled blood. Mycroft was searching for the killer, certainly, but he'd never find him. There was nothing but an average height, masked man that moved like a trained killer and drove the body away from any camera's sight. A hard feat, in London.

_Two more and I could come back, _he thought but cut it off. That was statistically impossible and he had to stop thinking about London, get used to New York, learn about the disintegration of cloth materials in the Hudson.

~~/~~

He had the third shooter in his car, lying over the backseat, when he realized something was wrong. John stared at the empty syringe in his hand, trying to pick up on a faint thread of memory. There were too many questions surrounding Sherlock's death, far too many, and he had a feeling he'd just stumbled onto the last one.

Something about the brown haired woman draped over the minivan's back seat, her hair splayed over the side of the cushioning reminded him of the postmortems, Sherlock bleeding over the mortician's table.

_Bleeding. _Actively.

_What the fuck? _

He had to be wrong. This was the last one, the last kill and he could empty the rest of the tranquilizer vial into his veins. There was nothing left. He could not rejoin the army; there was nothing to keep him from it. Mrs. Hudson would suffer, that was clear and it made him want to break down screaming to think about it. He did not want to kill himself. He did not want Mrs. Hudson to suffer. However, he had always been a reasonable man and he knew, without a doubt, after this kill there would be nothing to stop him the next time he forgot something about Sherlock, forgot how he sounded or stood or smelled. The urge would come again and he had nothing left to fight it back.

But he had to see those pictures again.

~~/~~

Hope bloomed too damn quickly. John took a taxi to the hospital, cursing himself for the way the world seemed to rush around him. He was feeling _hopeful. _Thinking he could have his dead partner back by some _fucking _twist of fate and he couldn't take this blow again. He couldn't look at those pictures and see that he was wrong again.

_Don't kill yourself, John. What's the point? _

"Alright?" the cabbie asked, pulling over beside St. Barts. John glanced out of the cab, toward the five story building and swallowed heavily. He made himself breathe through his nose and forced his eyes open. He was fine. "Twelve quid even," the cabbie announced.

John paid him and made himself step out. The cement was hard beneath his feet and John wanted to puke, glancing over at the large rectangle worked into the concrete to mark the bus stop. Eight months.

_Fuck. Sherlock Holmes._

John walked away from it slowly, swallowing heavily and started for the front door.

He made his way down to the morgue, trying desperately to figure out if he should do this. He couldn't take being wrong again.

_It doesn't matter, _he realized belatedly, staring through the doors into the empty morgue. He wasn't 'handling it' anyway. He wasn't healing.

He got inside and crossed to the cabinet Molly had filed the pictures in. She was nowhere in sight but he had lived with Sherlock for over a year. He knew how to pick locks.

Case # 135642585: White Male, 37 Years old, Sherlock Holmes

John skipped over the examiner's chart. It didn't matter now. If Sherlock was alive, Molly would have been in on it. She had signed the chart.

_Don't try to think, John, it's not your area. The whole theory is asinine. _

_Actually, Sherlock, it's not, _John thought, staring at the photos. Picture 17, time stamp 11:46:02. Sherlock's bloody arm, the bone sticking up through the skin. Picture 18, time stamp 11:46:54, The same arm, at the side of the picture, bloodier now, the bone sticking up through the skin. John flipped back and forth between the pictures, the bile in his throat starting to settle as his heart rate picked up.

_Oh my god._

He was going to be like one of Elvis' sick fans, never believing in the actual death. But it was over; he'd never believe it now. That 'corpse' was still bleeding.

What did Molly do?

John felt determination flow through him. He had to talk to her. He had to know what the _fuck _had gone down on the top of that damn building.

_Sherlock's alive. _

John leaned a hand on the table and tried to breathe steadily.

_Sherlock's alive. And I'm going to be pissed as hell when I calm down. _

John flipped between the two photos again and starting searching through the others for any sort of greater evidence. Nothing. The man looked entirely like a corpse on a table. They'd managed it perfectly; but they couldn't keep him from bleeding.

_They hid this for a reason, _John remembered, flipping through the pages again and taking picture 17. He folded it up in his pocket quickly and filed the folder away.

He needed to talk to Molly, but first he needed to punch something until his knuckles bled, grab some food, and have a beer.

_~~/~~_

He couldn't talk to Molly, John realized, halfway through his second beer. If Sherlock were alive -_fuck -_if Sherlock were alive, they'd have allowed him to _mourn_ just to make the world believe Sherlock Holmes had died at the bottom of that building.

Which meant he'd just stumbled onto one hell of a secret. John leaned forward over the bar and nursed his drink. No. He had no proof, the pictures weren't that clear. There was a lot of blood on that table, more may have simply seeped to the appropriate side if the table was tilted and they always were. But it made sense. Sherlock had seen the assassin threat coming, had planned on faking his suicide -_fuck you Sherlock -_and couldn't come back until the threat was eliminated. Which meant the rest of Moriarty's network, or at least the key players in it.

John smiled grimly around his drink. He had a whole folder full of them.

Wherever Sherlock was, he was fighting through the whole damn thing like a giant puzzle to unravel, when he could just cut his way through.

_Best way to get proof, _John thought, swallowing down another gulp. _Cut through the folder and see if Sherlock Holmes comes back. _

He couldn't do that. John stared at his drink, wanting to slam it down on the bar top. He wasn't a murderer; never had been. Most of Moriarty's contacts were guilty of extortion, burglary, destruction of evidence. He'd already dealt with the really dangerous players. If anyone else mattered, there was nothing more he could do, and if it'd only been the assassins, that job was done.

_This is Sherlock's game. _

John cursed himself and gulped down the rest of his beer. Sherlock was alive; he had to clean himself up.

~~/~~

John wrestled his way out of his sheets, panting.

_Fuck, _he thought, sitting up in his cot and waiting for the spike of grief that always followed sleep.

_Sherlock's alive, _he thought and blinked, running a hand down his face, unable to believe it again. He pulled the folded up picture off of his bedside table and stared at Sherlock's horribly broken arm, remembering the second picture.

_Sherlock's alive. _

He sank back down to his cot for a moment, grinning wildly to himself before swinging his legs over the bed.

_Fuck, Sherlock, I miss you. _

And he was going to _master _this fucking sign language.

John pulled his laptop out of the bag Greg had brought; he'd just shoved it in the closet then but it was _useful _now. There were online training programs, video meet ups, books, movies. He was going to chew Sherlock _apart _when the man came home.

_You made a plan based on the fact that I'm stupid? That turned out so well for you, you absolute dick. _

_I need to pretend to still be mourning you. _

That was fine; John could still feel the harsh ache in his chest and throat he'd come to associate with Sherlock.

_I'm used to mourning, now. _It didn't feel like much had changed.

_That's the shock. It'll pass. _

_God, let it pass. I want to feel this. _

~~/~~

She felt guilty, Donovan thought, lying back in James' bed, listening to him shower. She'd always felt like shit about herself, that was hardly a change; she'd used James' wife's _shampoo _for God's sake, now that Sherlock wasn't around to sniff it out. Her life was the work, that was who she really was, so it didn't much matter to her what she did outside of it. No, she felt guilty about her work and she had fuck all idea why.

She hadn't done anything wrong. She was a good cop, and had proved that to herself those few months ago. Proved it to anyone who could ask that she'd put justice over her own career because _god _had she not done herself any favors accusing her supervisor's only friend -if Sherlock had even been that - of kidnapping. Either way, it hadn't put her career on the fast track. Internal investigations didn't do wonders for anyone.

And it hadn't been her damn fault the man had gone and played leapfrog over a building. The psychopath had already been unstable as hell and she'd gotten a psychopath off the streets. It'd been the arresting officer's job to fucking arrest him, rather than let him run off the hood of the car into all of London to go kill himself. That was on the arresting officers and Sherlock Holmes.

Christ, but Watson. The man had looked on the verge of actual collapse when she'd seen him, after. That wasn't her damn fault either. Sally rolled over sharply and punched her pillow. She was going to _sleep; _she had no business feeling guilty.

James' shower stopped. Sally tried to sink into the bed and groaned to herself. God, but she was tired.

There was nothing else going on at work. The homicide unit had the same schedule every time. They'd get called in for a murder, figure out if it was the spouse or a drug relation, or find out it was neither, work for 48 hours straight, call it a cold case and go home. And after just such a spree -it'd been the spouse and they'd only just caught up with him – she should be dead to the world, not lying awake ruminating about things that weren't her bloody fault.

"You need to stop feeling guilty," James said unnecessarily, looking over from where he stood in a towel in the doorway. Sally groaned and ran her hands down her face.

"You did the right thing. You are a damn good cop," he said and Sally felt something lift in her chest despite herself.

"Thanks," she replied.

"You shouldn't have to hear it form me. Sherlock Holmes was creepy; he always was, and if there's anything I've learned in forensics its that the world really isn't that exciting. There aren't these great puzzles and masterminds. Cold cases, sure, but no one's that damned clever," he said, walking into the room and turning to his dresser to fetch his pajamas. Why a grown man felt the need to wear pajama bottoms she had no idea. She'd asked him when they'd just started and he'd joked that he never knew if Sherlock was just going to come barging in, shouting about Swiss cheese. She'd laughingly agreed it was a fair concern, at the time.

"I suppose I do wonder," Sally admitted, turning over again to face him better. "I mean, how could Sherlock have set up all of them? Not the more recent cases, but the normal, bland ones he helped with, finding the drug dealer's abandoned car, finding the victim's body after an obvious shooting, that kind of thing. I mean five years of boring cases? That seems almost as far-fetched as him being that stupidly clever and having a 'nemesis'," she admitted.

Still, she'd thought that before and looked into that and made her decision – maybe Sherlock was smart enough to solve those crimes but he'd obviously gotten bored. The Richard Brook fiasco had been his crime, not the murders. Just the bombings and the forged paintings. That was enough.

"Nobody is that clever," James replied, shrugging as if that answered all the questions. Sally growled and turned over again. She was going to find a new colleague-with-benefits. Anderson really did lower the intelligence of the whole street, even if he was usually kind about it.

"I don't think he faked it all," Sally replied finally as James turned off the light. "I just mean the Reichenbach and Richard Brook thing. I didn't mean to imply anything more that that, not that that isn't enough."

Sally blinked. James had gone utterly still, halfway through crawling into bed. She felt him roll backwards, getting his feet back on the floor and he flicked on the light. He was standing by the bed, staring at her, looking about ready to be sick.

"What?" she asked and he reached for his phone.

"I just – I gotta look something up," he said, pulling his smart phone off the charger.

"What?" she repeated, concerned. He glanced up and met her eyes, looking guilty.

"I think Reichenbach is Rich Brook in German," he answered.

Sally blinked.

"Oh bloody fucking hell," she said, sitting up.

~~/~~

Lestrade didn't know how to do the timing right. He took every opportunity he had to talk to Molly in person, pick up files and drop off forensic evidence, but he could be as friendly as he wanted; there was something about dropping off a desiccated disembodied foot for the morgue to identify that didn't set the mood for a dinner date. Apparently he was getting to test that one in person now.

Molly didn't seem to notice, though. She walked around the room, stuffing the evidence bag into one of the lab's refrigerators and typing it up a label, not even really appearing to notice if he was still there.

"So, Molly," he started, and she turned too quickly, her mouth already open to speak. "Go ahead," he offered.

"Oh! I -er -I was just wondering if you've seen John? Lately?" she asked, biting her lip.

Well. That killed that then, Lestrade figured, sighing.

"No, it's been a few days. Should I be worried?" he asked, feeling his eyebrows furrow. How long had it been since he'd last dropped in to sit across from the silent, desperate man? Three weeks?

"I don't know. He said months ago that he was going to join the army, I just thought – maybe – you know, he'd say goodbye?"

"I thought he couldn't, what with the bullet wound?" Lestrade asked, confused. Molly shrugged slightly.

"I don't now much about it. I guess he can. It might be good for him," she said.

"To get shot at? Afghanistan isn't good for anyone," Greg argued, thinking she might be a little naive at the end of the day. That could be a problem. He had two kids, for hell's sake; he needed a woman who could hold her own against them. Especially Jake. Strange concept; a naive mortician.

"He said otherwise he'd shoot himself," Molly replied quietly.

Ah. Not naive.

Greg glanced over her, starting to get concerned. She looked so diminished without the two of them running around the lab, pulling crazy theories out of nothing. It was all too quiet now. He knew the feeling; Scotland Yard was the same thing; all domestic abuse calls. He had three murders in, two almost certainly drug related and a new one, woman beaten in with an umbrella, that he knew they weren't going to get enough evidence for before the stepson fled the E.U.

It didn't matter what Sally and James pulled up on Richard Brook now; Sherlock was dead. He'd do his best to clear the man's name for John, and that was close to finished now, but John didn't seem to care much. About anything.

No, it was still too soon. Greg glanced around the room, looking for a good escape.

"Well. I'll – uh -visit him in a few days, see how he's holding up. I've got some questions about Sherlock's old cases," he said, turning for the door. "I never thought a blog was going to work so well as case files before," he joked quietly. Molly smiled but it slipped slightly at the edges of her mouth. Yeah, he knew that feeling too.

He left, deciding _next time. _Next time they'd be over it.

~~/~~

John walked to Sherlock's grave from the clinic on the fifteenth of June.

He had some trouble finding it; the plot had grown over with grass and looked like it'd never been disturbed. The cut stone had sunk into the mud and could have been sitting in its exact spot for a hundred years for all John could tell. It looked, in other words, like an utterly normal grave.

He sat down, his back supported by the stone, and tried to remember that his friend was alive in the world somewhere. It made the loss so much more bearable, to know the world had not lost such a man. Still, he was starting to think Sherlock wasn't coming back.

The assassins were dead. John had done all that he could and tried to pretend like he wasn't living every day like the man was going to be the next one walking into the clinic, the bar, the flat.

It wasn't working particularly well.

**:I keep waiting for you to come home. Every time a door opens. I can't keep waiting, Sherlock.: **John tossed his phone into the grass, knowing the man wasn't going to respond.

_God, Sherlock. _John closed his eyes and rested his head back on the stone. He felt like a madman, clinging onto a useless hope. He wished he'd taken both photos from the morgue; he couldn't prove it to himself with just the one. John pulled it out of his pocket and straightened it out carefully. The folds had become worn and soft with time and were threatening to tear. As always, there was nothing to see in the photo but the blood-covered fractured arm of a corpse. John sighed and folded it back into his pocket.

He'd have faith.

But he couldn't kill himself, if the man was alive to suffer for it.

_Damn it, Sherlock, then come home. You can't have it both ways, _John thought, pushing himself off of the dirt. Mourning wasn't any different closer or further from the grave. The sun was setting; it'd be getting dark soon. He'd go home and not come back again.

He'd barely made it halfway home and was walking behind a badly-parked Crisco truck when he felt the blow to his knees throw him from his feet.

He went down hard, scraping an arm across the sidewalk heavily. He rolled, moving to fight, when a kick landed in his stomach and a man leaned over him, pushing a syringe into his arm.

Right. John grabbed onto the leg as it kicked him again and punched up into its owner's nuts with all his force, raising himself onto his knees as he moved. The man bent over with pain but another hand grabbed John's head by the hair and slammed him into the brick wall beside him. Pain smashed over the right side of his face and John wanted to roll around to protect his head but he resisted, twisting in the grip and letting his hair pull horribly to lunge at the man, getting his hand free as quickly as possible to reach for his gun. He didn't have long; his limbs were already feeling slow.

His stomach rolled. His head was summarily slammed into the brick again but he'd gotten the gun into his hand. He lifted it up and saw his hand wobbling horribly, worse than it felt.

_Damn drugs, _he realized and got his second hand up to help pull the heavy trigger.

The bang of the gun deafened him for a moment, and the man's stomach splashed outward over the wall. John tried to get his body to turn to the next man, even as his stomach twisted in his gut. He turned in time to see a gun pointed at his face.

"Drop it and lie down," the man ordered and John obeyed, feeling his stomach roll again as his eyesight started to narrow, like he'd stood up too fast and too early. His stomach rolled again and he fought to swallow, feeling feint.

_Damn drugs, _he thought as he obeyed the man's command and lowered himself to the concrete.

~~/~~

John woke up with his head pounding in pain and his arms pulled together in front of him sharply, his shoulders aching.

Right. Tied up, then.

_Probably not Mycroft's doing then_, John thought, wincing. Contrary to the opinion of popular television, people didn't go unconscious easily and they didn't wake _up _easily, not from blows to the head or drugs anyway.

_This could be bad,_ John thought, tugging at the bonds at his wrists, trying to move as little as possible. The bonds cut into his skin; plastic wire ties.

_Shit. _

He breathed in easily and released it softly, doing his best to keep his body relaxed, still sleeping. The longer they thought he was unconscious, the more time Lestrade would have to find him before the torture started; if that was what they were planning. He'd count himself damn lucky if he were just a hostage.

_Who is 'they'?_

He thought Taliban first, out of habit, but it was ridiculous. He was in London. Or at least, he had been. God knew, now.

His second thought was Moriarty, but that didn't make much sense. Moriarty was dead, wasn't he? John had to fight to keep his breathing calm. God, if Moriarty weren't dead either then Sherlock had jumped for nothing.

He was panicking, John acknowledged, forcing himself to calm down.

_Just. Think, _he ordered himself.

He couldn't feel any wind, but the air was too cool for June outside and his eyelids were dark in front of his eyes. No, he was inside. And something was dripping, somewhere to his right. His hands were tied down to something in front of him; his own chair, maybe?

"You're very good at faking sleep, you know," a voice mentioned blandly from in front of him. A man's voice; he sounded young and oddly...reasonable. John wasn't sure what he was expecting from his captor. Something similarly _nuts _as that 'Shun' woman who'd almost killed Sarah, sing-songing her words and talking to a non existent circus audience. That, at least, made a sick kind of sense. This man sounded like a bank teller.

Still, he kept up the sleeping act, praying the man was just trying to bluff him out of it.

Footsteps approached his chair softly. John kept up his act, trying desperately to keep his calm as he heard the footsteps settle next to him.

Pain slammed into the side of his face, blossoming over his cheek and eye. John's eyes flew open, only to clench shut against the pain.

John opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the tears that had burst into his eyes at the blow. He was in a parking garage; that was clear from the angled lines on either side of the floor and the numbered lots. It was a huge basement garage, lit up only by overhead lights.

_How do you find a parking garage you know will be empty? Does he own it?_

"Hey," the man said, walking away. He was a fairly short, blond man with a plaid blue jacket and jeans. Utterly ordinary.

_Where is the draft coming from?_ John wondered, turning his head to see an upramp opening up behind him and to his right. He looked back at his captor who was sitting down on a chair in front of him.

"I'm supposed to torture you into insanity," the man mentioned, spinning a pen in his hands.

John felt fear spike through him.

"Why?" he asked. His voice came out steady. John pulled gently against the plastic holding his hands. Even cutting himself he wasn't going to pull his hands free. The parking garage was musty, smelling like dust and dry dirt. Unused for a long time, then, maybe. It should smell like oil and there wasn't a trace of it.

The man leaned back slightly in his chair, considering.

"Don't really know, to the honest," he said, lifting himself up in the chair slightly to reach into his back pocket. He pulled out a folded slip of cream-colored paper and held his pen between his teeth for a moment, freeing his hands to unfold the thing. "Got a whole list here, very specific," he said, shaking the paper open and retrieving his pen.

_American, apparently._

John felt his heart start to pound and dragged his eyes away from the list. First thing he'd learned about torture; using fear and anticipation. His had told him about this; told him not to look at what was going to happen, to allow his brain to predict the pain but not imagine it when it wasn't happening.

_Good fucking luck, _he thought, tugging slightly at the bonds around his feet. They cut against his ankles, feeling like ribbed plastic too. Fucking wire ties.

"I've never tortured anyone to a To-Do list before. Feels sort of -" the man paused, rubbing his two fingers together, "classless," he ended on.

"Well, god forbid it isn't classy," John commented, feeling himself blink rapidly, trying to catch up with this man who sat across from him.

The man chuckled and pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket to focus on the paper in his hands.

"Okay, so apparently this starts with a letter," the man said, glancing up at him as if to ask 'what the hell?' before refocusing on the paper in his hands. It was fine paper, made out as a handwritten note on stationary.

John had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on. Moriarty wouldn't just die and let all that building tension on him go.

_Will this never be over?_

"Hello pet," the man started, pushing his glasses up his nose with his index finger. "You know, when he was on his deathbed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end and Bach rose from his deathbed, just to get to the piano and finish it before he died," the man read, before glancing up from the letter, his mouth quirked up. "Is that true?" he asked.

John rolled his tongue around his mouth, pressing at the warm areas he could feel bruising. He needed to keep this man talking.

"Right. I haven't a notion. It sounds like bullshit," he replied honestly. "But Moriarty would not have stood for a false metaphor, I think," he said, glancing around the room for anything resembling help. His pockets were empty; he could feel that, so that was useless. "Assuming it is a metaphor," he added, to keep talking. He regretted it immediately, as it drew the torturer's gaze back to the note.

"It is, yeah. I've read this over before," the man clarified, scanning the note. "Anyway. Bach, bla bla, ah yeah, here, I'm just like Bach, see? A composer. I can't stand to see it incomplete. You probably don't understand. You're mostly very stupid, but that's okay. You're not the point. Were you sleeping with Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson? I always wondered that. Oh well, I'm dead now, so that's hardly important. Still, he was too good for you. You're so _boring," _the torturer looked up, stilling his pen where he was tracking the words, "that's in italics," he clarified.

_Why would I care? _John wondered, but he made himself nod quietly.

"Just the word boring or -"

"No, no, just the word," the man interrupted, glancing back down at the sheet.

"If Moriarty is dead, who is paying you?" John asked.

_Maybe I can offer to pay him better? Mycroft owes me that much. _

"Oh, it was paid in advance," the man answered.

_What the devil?_

"Then why torture me?" John asked, wondering if he' come upon yet another sadist criminal 'mastermind'. Apparently they were common as tourists in modern day London.

"I'm sort of a go-to guy, you know? I've done a lot of jobs and the people who work with me know I get my work done well so they ask to hire me again. I can't afford to just reneg on jobs, not in this economy," the man replied, grinning slightly to himself before refocusing on the paper. "Sorry buddy," he added, glancing up. "Anyway, back to this wackjob's note, shall we? Apparently you're boring enough to be italicized and..." the man's eyes flicked over the note. "I've always been one for contingency plans. Your lover never really got that, did he? That was his weakness, he always wanted it to be so damn complicated, such a good puzzle. Well, people aren't puzzles, Johnny Boy. They're boring, and really just not that hard to beat. All you need is contingency plans. See, I didn't have to wonder 'what if' – what if Sherlock didn't jump, what if it faked it, what if he killed me before I got to explain, because in the end I was always going to win. Do you see it now? I rather doubt it. Okay, okay, fine, I'll spell it out for you. It didn't matter what Sherlock did, I was always going to torture you. I gave him options to see what he'd do, see if he was interesting, see if he was like me. Between you and me, though, I hope he faked it. Then he gets to come home, not when he planned, but when I call him back to me, to find you so very gone. I'm not going to kill you, Johnny, I'm going to burn you. Did you see that coming? I keep repeating it, hopefully one of you would have gotten there. I'm going to burn you – to be precise, Mike is going to burn you -" the torturer looked up, waving a hand slightly before he went back to the note "until Sherlock comes for you. Or alternatively, that pet D.I of his or that angry black detective he has working for him, but I hope it's Sherlock, because by the time you're found and you will be found, you'll be utterly mad. Whatever it is that Sherlock finds so endearing about you burned away forever. Do you see the poetry in that? I will burn his heart, by burning out your mind."

_Oh my god, _John thought, feeling ill. The torturer – Mike – glanced over the letter, flipping it back and forth in his hands as if checking if it had a back.

"Oh, and it's signed, 'with love, Jim Moriarty," he said, flipping it back to show him the front. "You seriously pissed him off, huh?" he asked folding the paper away and shoving it into his back pocket. He pulled out a piece of folded up lined paper to replace it. "So I have this list I'm supposed to follow, times and all," he said, checking his watch – an old black plastic thing that glowed slightly. "Got a few minutes," he said.

"What time is it then?" John asked.

"8:27," the man replied and John blinked, realizing he had no idea if it was day or night.

"Be right back," Mike excused himself, getting out of the chair and walking around the corner. "It's probably charged up now."

John felt fear clench at his stomach again.

_Oh god, Sherlock._

_~~/~~_

Lestrade hung up his mobile and stared sightlessly into his laptop screen. Donovan and Anderson were uncovering flaw after flaw in Richard Brook's story. Even _Donovan _had started doubting Sherlock's sentence. That was it; he needed to speed up clearing that man's name. If nothing else, John needed it.

Even if it meant calling John wherever he'd been stationed and bringing up some damn painful memories.

~~/~~

"So what was this Sherlock guy like, anyhow?" Mike asked, walking around the corner again, holding a blowtorch in a gloved hand.

_Oh god. _John felt himself pull at his bonds despite himself and felt them catch against his skin and start to cut. He forced himself still and tugged at the bonds, hoping he could get just the one hand out, _something. _Most of all, he knew he needed to stall. He wasn't likely getting out of this one alone.

_Lestrade, you better fucking notice I'm gone. _

"Tall, dark hair, brilliant, funny," John answered. "Could tell where you'd been, what you'd eaten, just by looking at you."

_Keep going, _he thought desperately as the man strode toward him, checking his watch. His brain blanked with fear and he fought it, trying to think of _anything _to say about his friend and lover. God, Sherlock Holmes.

"I can't believe you haven't heard of him. He was amazing," John stated. The man quirked a smile and opened his arms wide.

"American," he announced and John nodded. That at least, was obvious.

"Right. Yeah. He could be loud for hours, throwing a fit, and then just wouldn't speak for days. Wouldn't even really seem to realize I'm -"

Mike pulled the blowtorch's trigger, letting out a burst of blue flame. He nodded and cut the flame off, working a nail out of his pocket.

_Keep talking, _John told himself.

"He was uh – kind, sometimes, when he wasn't being an absolute prat. You know, could just really screw up and be actually sorry about it, which for him came as a bit of a -"

The man was heating up the nail head now, pinching it between two fingers.

_I still talk about him in the past tense. Haven't gotten used to it yet – Sherlock's alive. _

It was just as well, he thought belatedly. He had to hide that fact, through this. That helped, he thought.

"He really loved Mrs. Hudson, quite a bit. Not quite sure how he felt about Molly. He was always a cad to her, really," he babbled as the man stopped heating the nail up and approached him. John slammed his hands into the bonds, fighting like hell now. It was too late for subtlety. The bonds didn't give.

~~/~~

John woke, gasping for air, only to feel his body instinctively try to pull up as water flooded his mouth and nose. A hand kept him down and John's eyes flew open to see the bottom of a bucket. His hands were still bound behind him, useless. He kicked out behind him but met nothing but air. He couldn't get enough purchase on the floor with his feet, couldn't force his way back up. He coughed out the last of his air and tried horribly, desperately not to inhale again. His lungs rebelled, wanting to cough again and John tried to stay calm, tried to remember what he'd learned about surviving longer under water if you stayed still and didn't fight it. Still, that could only last so long and he _needed _air; god, he was dying and it _hurt _and he pulled at his hands, letting the plastic cut into him further, if it would help at all. He had no choice but to let the plastic rip at him.

"We're getting off our time table. Stop passing out," Mike complained as he dragged him back out of the water. John pulled in air desperately and his lungs rebelled again, coughing too much to breathe.

_Breathe, just breathe, _he told himself, trying to stay above the panic, trying to stay silent and sane.

"You know, this whole routine has been totally ridiculous, but at the end of the day I do appreciate the method," Mike commented.

John glanced down to see the metal hook attach to his bonds and tightened his arms. This, at least, the army had tried to prepare him for. If he could keep his arms strong and lift his own weight, he could avoid a good bit of the pain and permanent joint damage. So far, it hadn't seemed like Mike knew that – or hadn't particularly cared, as long as he followed the script.

_Sherlock, you fucker. You better have left some way for people to contact you._

"Burning is just really damn efficient and people always underestimate it. If it helps at all, I'm only supposed to use other torture methods to wake you up," Mike commented, pulling on the rope set into the hook on the ceiling. John felt the rope jerk against his binds and set his jaw. Mike had wrapped rope around his arms – the only reason he was going to keep his hands, through this, but the man was smart about it; he'd yet to come close to John at all while he was awake.

The rope pulled at him, unyielding and John pulled back against it, letting his muscles engage and keep his shoulders firmly in their sockets as the rope lifted his arms above his head and steadily raised him up.

He heard the sound of the blowtorch again and felt his stomach roll. He pulled his tongue away from his teeth, afraid he'd bite it off in this next session. He was fairly sure Mike was writing something on his back.

~~/~~

**:Lost contact. Standby. MH:**

~~/~~

"Well, apparently we're done," Mike said, suddenly shutting off the torch. "We're supposed to build up to it all, apparently an hour today, two hours tomorrow, three, et cetera," he said. John tried to open his eyes and gave up, not caring. He was pinned down on his face, locked to two hooks drilled into the floor,. Mike unhooked the one at his feet, leaving John's hands chained to the wall ten feet in front of him. "So, you know, living arrangements wise, I'll grab you a water bottle and some food in the morning. There's a Brewers Fayre not far off. Feel free to pick a pee corner, try not to sleep in it and if you scream I will gag you with a rag soaked in comet cleanser, and trust me, I've gotten that shite on my hands and you don't want it in your mouth. Don't disturb my sleep. Nice day, yeah?"

John listened to Mike's footsteps trail off, trying to get himself to care which direction they went. Right, up that ramp probably, then too faint to tell. Other than that, there was nothing but the indistinct sound of water dripping. He'd heard it every time the blowtorch stopped or he'd stopped moaning.

_One hour? How could that only have been one hour?_

Dread poured through him, thinking about two. He wasn't sure how long he lay there until he pushed himself up, his arm muscles screaming at him, his back feeling like the hot nail was still on him. His vision swam horribly when he stood and he quickly bent back down, deciding to hobble his way to the wall to sit down, keeping his back far away from it. He glanced over the room, desperately trying to find something helpful in it while he listened horribly for Mike's footsteps. God, there was a lot of blood. Too much blood, for a burning.

John forced himself to swallow and figure it out, remembering the feint _clicking _sound every time the nail was pulled away. A pocket knife, then. Mike was cutting away the burned spots.

John swallowed bile down again and closed his eyes, just wanting to disappear but he had to force them open again. He had to wait to be found. There was almost nowhere in England where you could scream without being heard and he'd certainly done enough of that. Sherlock would use that, surely.

John brought his wrists to his teeth and started to chew on the plastic by his pinkies, where it couldn't be seen. He bent the plastic back and forth with his teeth, letting it pinch and cut into his wrists. He wouldn't last many more days before he lost the strength to get away.

~~/~~


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 16

It was _cold. _John was shocked that could bother him at all, with his back caked over with blood and wire ties cutting into his wrists and ankles, but the shivering _hurt _and time moved so slowly and John forced himself to stay awake against the freezing concrete as he ripped at the plastic on his hands. His teeth _hurt _but he had only this one chance.

He stopped chewing when he heard Mike walking back. Dread poured over him and John pushed back into the wall behind him, letting the skin on his back pull and scream. He doubled over to protect himself and his back ripped open. He gasped, trying to breathe.

_Don't fight, _he ordered himself when the footsteps stopped just out of reach. He'd need his hands; any move too soon would ruin his only chance and he'd die in this godforsaken parking garage.

Mike leaned down, grabbing him by the hair to keep his head still, and slipped something around his hands. John glanced down and fought, pressing backward, letting his hair rip, as he saw a new wire tie wrapped around the old. Mike pulled on the new plastic quickly and it synched itself closed around him.

Mike cut the old one off quickly and smiled slightly at the ripped up plastic.

"Good morning," he said simply. John did his best to breathe steadily, wishing he knew how to prepare his mind for what was coming. He wasn't getting himself out of here. "I've gotta beat the shit out of you today. Photoshoot coming up," Mike said, pulling the lined-paper list out of his pocket to gesture at it.

_Two hours today, _John remembered, struggling to swallow.

~~/~~

"So he really was your lover, huh?" Mike asked, when the torch stopped.

"What?" John groaned, pulling his head up. The words came out wrong, like he was talking around marbles. He had to keep the man talking. He'd do anything. His throat burned horribly but it kept the torch off.

"Well, I wouldn't scream some random bloke's name, is all," the man replied conversationally, moving around to John's front and releasing the rope to lower him back to the floor. John heard the heavy _crack _as his knees hit the concrete but he didn't feel it at all.

"You scream Sherlock, when you scream," the man clarified, swinging his chain around to disconnect it from the hook on the ceiling. It fell onto John's back heavily and John cried out, falling forward. That he felt. He sobbed, pushing his forehead into the concrete.

"Not intentional," the man said, as if it mattered. "My bad."

_Yeah. God, _John thought rolling heavily to his side. He still felt like himself. John Watson, only in too much pain to think. He was not mad, yet, he thought.

"So, out of curiosity, is Sherlock really dead then?" the man asked, moving the chain around to lock John to the wall again. "I looked you two up last night. Great stuff."

_Was this all leading up to that? So it sounded casual to ask if Sherlock is alive? _John wondered, staring at the man. It would help, somehow, if this actually had a _point. _

"Why do you want to know?" John rasped out.

The man glanced over, looking surprised.

"You know, if you'd ever tortured anyone, you'd know that by day two, they'll answer every question immediately, unless they've decided to lie to you," he commented, reaching for the blowtorch from where it was cooling on the ground.

John scrambled back, letting his back scream and he rolled away.

"No, right, not a secret. He's dead. Been dead for a year," he promised.

"Do you really believe that?" the man asked, peering at him.

"Yes, please yes," John pleaded. God, he should have answered right away; if only he'd answered right away.

"Alright, then have fun biting at your leash," the man replied, picking up the blowtorch and striding away. They were done. John hung his head down, trying to get his muscles to relax. He'd be in less pain when he relaxed.

_I need water, _John remembered insanely, his body hot and sick with dehydration. He'd only make another day if he _weren't _bleeding buckets all over the concrete. He scooted back again and heard something tip. He looked back only to feel his heart jump as he scrambled forward, grabbing at the water bottle before it rolled out of his reach.

~~/~~

Captain John Hamish Watson had not returned to service. Greg put the phone down quietly, feeling dread wash over him. Something felt very, very wrong.

~~/~~

John tried to force his body backward, out of the water. He needed to _breathe, _but a hand was holding him down and panic was taking over. He kicked backwards but didn't land on anything, and he couldn't keep himself from inhaling, he _needed _air and he choked as he inhaled water and tried to push it out even as it meant he choked further.

_Oh god. _

Heavy hands dragged him out of the water and John bent over, his stomach rolling up and he threw up over the ground, only to choke on it as he tried to inhale.

"Stop passing out," Mike ordered, dragging him back toward the hook.

~~/~~

"Hello?" Molly picked up the phone on the first ring. Greg was grateful.

"Hey Molly-" _Crap._ "Er- Ms. Hooper-"

"Molly's fine," she said cheerfully.

"Great. Molly, have you seen John lately?"

He heard the pause and knew the answer.

_Shite._

"Not since he came for the postmortems, why?" she asked, sounding concerned.

"He's not enlisted in the army," he replied, swallowing heavily.

This could be bad. This could be really bad.

"Oh, god,' she said and he knew she was thinking the same.

"He's not picking up his phone," he added.

"I'll run by his place," she said quickly and he heard the noise of keys fumbling on the other side of the phone.

"I'm standing outside it," he answered, glancing around the empty, dank hallway. No one had answered.

"Oh, god."

"I'm going to swing by Baker Street. See if their landlady has seen him," he offered.

_Not likely. Damn it John, don't do this to her._

"Oh, god," Molly repeated.

~~/~~

John woke to a gentle shake of his shoulder.

"John?"

_Oh, thank god, _he thought, pulling himself from the dregs of his nightmare.

"Sherlo-" he started, but the name sounded strange on his lips and he opened his eyes. Mike was squatting in front of him, looking bemused. John shot forward, reaching his hands out for the blowtorch, ready to kill the man. His wrists caught against the plastic and he was rolled back by a blow to the teeth he couldn't dodge. He landed on his back and shouted before instinctively gulping down the blood that rushed from between his teeth.

"Good morning. Welcome to day three," the man said. John swallowed blood again and tried to pull away from the man.

The man tugged him toward the hook with little trouble. John told himself not to fight but still his body lurched backward, desperately kicking at the man. Another fist slammed into his teeth and the man threw his chain over the hook on the ceiling again.

"Well, this is starting rapidly today," Mike commented, pulling his torch from his back pocket.

_Oh god. _

Still, the man hadn't replaced his wire ties, and as far as John could tell, hadn't noticed the small amount of damage he'd made to them. There was hope.

~~/~~

**:John officially missing. Suspected suicide. Come home. MH: **

Sherlock reread the message and closed his eyes, feeling ill. He rarely hated his brain but right now, when it meant he didn't know his partner, didn't understand the emotions involved and couldn't hope to predict them, he loathed everything about it. He'd rather be _dim _than so ignorant.

_What was the point? What could be gained in ending life? _Sherlock's brain whispered at him and he pulled his hands through his hair, silencing it. He'd think about where John would have gone; every single damn possibility and their associated probabilities dispassionately and he'd go down the list in order when he got back and he _would _find him.

"Sir, you have to put your phone away," the fight attended pestered him again.

"Fuck you, John is likely dead," Sherlock hissed at her, wanting to rip her limb from limb. How could she stand there like nothing in the world mattered but his _bloody _phone.

"I'm so sorry, sir, but you have to put your phone away," she repeated at him and he snarled but had to obey; they couldn't toss him off this plane. He needed to get back. She left him alone and Sherlock threw his head back on the seat behind him. He needed to think of all the places John could have gone. He'd have a 7 hour flight worth of options when he landed.

~~/~~

John woke up to a bright light flashing over his face. He blinked up at it, blinded for a moment, to see Mike holding a camera before the light flashed again. John tried desperately to think of any clue he could give and just rolled out of the way so the white line on the floor was exposed before Mike took another shot. He tried to think of some fancy clue, holding up four fingers to mean...something that Sherlock could use, but he still hadn't come up with anything when Mike stopped and walked away.

"You have another hour before we start," he said and John moaned and tried to press himself back away from the man, trying not to puke.

~~/~~

**:Lestrade has a warrant to search John's flat. It is empty. He will find out in an hour. MH:**

~~/~~

Sherlock spent the afternoon crossing 37 options off of his list, before he started looking for a body. He had twenty most-likely options if John had committed suicide. The only way to cut that list down was to search for a body. This the last place he ever expected to come back to, but John may have wanted to die here. It was an arrogant thought, he knew that, but it seemed likely all the same. He opened the door to the top of Bart's hospital wing with a sickening feeling of expectation. He ignored it This was by far the most likely. It would be a sick kind of justice.

The roof was empty. The wind blew lightly over his hair, kicking dust and dirt around him. He was wearing clothing fit for New York, loose jeans and a leather jacket, but it kept the cold from distracting him. There was no sign of a body here.

His phone was still there. Sherlock walked over to it, wondering how the police had possibly missed it, much less Mycroft's teams. It was exactly where he'd thrown it before he jumped so long ago. Two options: either Mycroft's team had found it and left it -unlikely, he would never have abandoned such a resource - or they were utterly incompetent. Sherlock picked up the phone, long dead after a year of rain. Idiots. His new phone buzzed on; Mycroft.

**:Missing Persons notified. Last spotted four days ago:**

Sherlock stared at the message, feeling the wind tug at his hair. Four days. How had no one noticed John for four days? That happened to the impoverished elderly with no grown children and the homeless.

He had to talk to Molly. He needed more facts, something to pin down what John might have done and where. There was no one after the man. What could have happened?

It didn't take long to sneak through the hospital. With international plane-flight stubble and his poor attire all he'd had to do was steal a mop from a janitor's cart and walk. Bloody 'security guards' didn't apparently care that his mop was bone dry. He broke into a run by the time he was safely downstairs. He spared a glance through the doors to make sure Molly was alone and stopped short.

_Damn it. _Lestrade was talking to her. Apparently deciding to 'help'. The man needed to get out of the way. Sherlock had promised he would not come back until there was no possibility of John being alive, and there was still a decent probability.

_You have no way of calculating that dispassionately. Your numbers are flawed with sentiment. The grit on the lens._

_Oh bugger it_, he didn't have time. If John was dead it was all irrelevant anyway and there was a good chance he was. If not, he needed to be found and Lestrade was likely to keep his secret. Sherlock slammed through the doors.

"What do you know?" he demanded.

Molly turned, her mouth open – apparently halfway through a word with the man - blinked and licked her lips, likely thinking about how to answer him. She'd expected him. Lestrade jerked -startled by the door and turned to look at him. His face froze, looking vaguely sickened - surprise. His hand slowly opened around his coffee cup's handle, giving it time to slip. He tried to catch it but it fell and smashed to the floor, coating the tile with ceramic shards and brown liquid -coffee. The coffee flowed slowly toward the floor drain but Lestrade did not glance at it. He stared at his face, looking pale. Shock; Lestrade had not expected him – predictable.

"He's been missing for four days. I last saw him months ago, when he came in for the postmortems. I gave them to him and uh – lied – told him he couldn't leave with them. He looked them over, said he was going to join the army and left. He looked upset," she admitted, biting her lip.

She was shifting her feet often and not quite meeting his gaze now -the first time he'd surprised her; it was irrelevant – she probably thought herself guilty. She should have noticed something about John. Likely true.

"Hold the phone, you're alive," Lestrade said, apparently done gaping at him, but his color was still off. Too pale.

"Obvious," Sherlock said, turning back to Molly. She likely had less information but she was at least talking about the subject at hand.

"Mrs. Hudson hasn't spoken to him in months so she had no information. Gre- er- Inspector Lestrade spoke to Sarah -"

"Who?" Sherlock interrupted. Molly blinked. He'd broken some social rule. Irrelevant. She was standing on the same side of the work table as Lestrade; he was too close to her, interested in her then, but not acting on it. He wasn't blushing. Irrelevant.

"And you knew about this?" Lestrade deduced, turning on Molly. Useless. He was looking less pale, that was promising.

"Er...John's boss. And ex-girlfriend?" she said, ignoring the detective as well. Right. The bossy one who had helped in the case with the insane Chinese woman and her gang. Relevant only because she'd likely been the one that reported the missing person. But how had it taken four days?

"He'd called out sick recently?" he asked, turning to Lestrade.

"What are you wearing? And why are you holding a mop?" Lestrade asked instead.

_Fuck off. John's body is likely already passing through liver mortis. Idiot._

"Why did Susan-" Sherlock started.

"Sarah," Molly interrupted. Irrelevant.

"Not contact missing persons after two days?" he demanded. Lestrade was still blinking at him like a demented fish but drew himself up, swallowing rapidly and nodding.

_Just answer the bloody question. _It'd almost be faster to ask Susan-Sarah himself at this rate. Almost, but probably not-

"He apparently worked all the time, almost constantly, after the uh-" Lestrade glanced at him, confused. Sherlock dug out his cellphone, getting ready to phone the clinic. The man was _slow. _God. He hated dealing with people; they were worse than old webpages.

"The fall," Lestrade continued, glancing at him askance again like he was going to just drop everything and explain. _God. _"but she said she was so used to his irregular schedule with er – with you -and he'd been so depressed that she didn't worry."

"Been depressed so she _didn't _worry when he disappeared?" Sherlock repeated, incredulous. _How fucking stupid could she be? The ugly cow. _John's body would be mostly rotted by now. He could have seen it sooner, when it still looked like him.

The Inspector shrugged.

"Stupid, I know," he agreed. The room fell silent and Sherlock glanced between them. That was all the information; seriously? He'd already _had _most of that. No use coming out of hiding after all.

And now even if they found the man he could be shot because Sherlock was too cowardly to kill himself for real.

_I could still keep it quiet, stay hidden, _Sherlock thought but he had to admit – the likelihood of John being dead already was far greater than not and if he wasn't alive it was almost certain that he desperately needed all of Sherlock's help. It wasn't Sherlock coming out of hiding that was going to kill him. All of the assassins were dead anyway; the threat was almost entirely neutralized.

_Unless this is a ploy to get you out and John's dead as soon as you're seen, _he thought, uncertain.

"I need all of the information off of this phone," he said, handing the dead phone to Lestrade without glancing at the man. Lestrade took it and Sherlock moved to leave. Lestrade was certainly going to return to Scotland Yard to assemble a team and Sherlock needed to find a way to eavesdrop. He'd make the decision whether or not John was in enough danger to warrant coming out of hiding when he had more information.

"I'll declare him a possible victim of the Moriarty case, transfer it to my unit," Lestrade said as he left, sounding dazed.

_Obvious. _

"Are you okay?" Molly asked him. Utterly utterly irrelevant. Did she understand nothing? Sherlock left without answering. He had work to do.

~~/~~

John was awake when Mike came in this time and he desperately tried to hobble away and then to attack but the man simply grabbed him by the hair like it was nothing and clipped him to the ceiling chain.

"Photos again tomorrow, gotta get you bloody for them," the man mentioned.

~~/~~

"Okay everyone, today we are dealing with a missing person's case. I know it's not really our area but it's one of our own," Lestrade started as the projector warmed up. The detectives were still getting into their seats at the tables set on either side of the room. Sherlock stood in front of a storage crate in the closet, concentrating on staying absolutely still as he waited for Lestrade to get to the point.

"John Hamish Watson, 39 years old, white male, living at 72 Whitehall Lane, Apartment GH17, formally employed as a consultant here. He was last seen four days ago by Sarah Sawyer of the London Clinic in Westminster. We have no concrete reason to believe that this is related to the god-awful Moriarty case we finished up last year but the connection should be explored as much as possible," Lestrade reported. The crowd shuffled, mumbling to each other. Discomfort, discontent.

_He didn't live at Baker's street? _Irrelevant, but still Sherlock wanted to think about it. He forced his mind back to the subject at hand. John could be dead.

"I know, it's uncouth to mention it that way, but here's what we've discovered since then," Lestrade started.

Sherlock was ready to strangle them all as they started on Moriarty again. Why were they so slow?; this was _known, _it was irrelevant. Missing Person's cases became almost impossibly unlikely to close after 24 hours, half that at 48 and it had been 102, assuming that John had left work on time that fourth day. And they were going over what Reichenbach meant in German? Who cared about his reputation – he was effectively dead.

Why would they possibly care, the ones who'd condemned him in the first place? Misplaced guilt? At a time like this? It didn't make _sense. _He was 'dead', Moriarty was dead, the connection was gone. Useless. The only fear left was that Moriarty had a contingency plan for his faking his death off the rooftop. The thought made bile try to rise up in Sherlock's stomach and he forced it down. It was possible Moriarty had out thought him one last time, but not likely. It didn't seem Moriarty's way; he wouldn't just shoot John. It didn't fit the game, it would mean his death was meaningless, that they were never matching intellects, just matching what the other one was willing to do, how far into hell they were willing to march.

_You're boring. You're on the side of the angels. _

_Oh, god. _If he'd misunderstood the game the whole time? If there weren't any rules at all, Moriarty had simply been causing pain, almost randomly. How many times had John told him it wasn't a game? If he'd been _right? _

Lord, but he was grateful they'd moved on from talking about his _reputation. _John was almost certainly dead. The question now was simply why and who he needed to throw off a rooftop.

"We've recovered this off of the late Sherlock Holmes' phone," Lestrade said, his eyes glancing to his closet. Two options, random chance or he'd figured out that Sherlock would be there. The man was smarter than he looked but he was still too slow.

_Idiots. What did you get off of the phone? _

That would confirm it. If they got anything relevant off the phone, it had to be Moriarty.

"We got this sheet from the phone company, no way to really cut it down quickly but it's short," Lestrade said, apparently attempting to meet his gaze through the crack in the closet door. Sherlock ignored him as the projector finally did its damn job.

Six texts to his phone from the same number.

**6/15/12 How'd you do it?**

**6/15/12 Why'd you do it?**

**6/20/12 Did you do it for me? **

**6/20/12 I loved you, you idiot.**

**11/08/12 I'm still learning your fucking sign language, do you know that? JW**

**6/15/13 I keep waiting for you to come home. Every time a door opens. I can't keep waiting, Sherlock.**

Sherlock stared at the ceiling to clear his eyes. He couldn't read when they were fucking _wet _for no reason and there was one last text, from an unknown number, and that last had sounded like a suicide note. And he needed to know _which. _

_God, no. _His heart was pounding sickly.

"So it was all true, sir? Moriarty? Sherlock Holmes killed himself, but he was innocent?" one of the officers asked. Sherlock glared at the screen until he could read it.

**6/15/13 Come and find your pet, sexy. You should take better care of your things. **

Unknown number. Thank god. And they were asking about his fucking reputation again?

It didn't say anything about using or ignoring the police. And Moriarty had never had an issue with his police support before.

"Sir, if Sherlock Holmes is dead, how are we going to find Watson?"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable.

"With the resources of the London police force, we should be able to narrow it down," Lestrade replied. Lying, clearly. They wouldn't get anywhere. Why lie? That was only wasting time. The assassins were irrelevant now; this was Moriarty's final play.

Sherlock took out his phone and opened a text message, selecting the group 'Lestrade's Team'.

He'd never been so grateful to whatever hitman had taken out Moriarty's assassins one by one over the last year; he could save John with minimal risk. Acceptable risk, now. And Sherlock had a strong feeling he wasn't supposed to be grateful for that, not when it required John to be tortured.

_But he'll heal, and we'll be back. _

Sherlock winced at his thoughts. They'd never be back. John still thought he was dead. He'd never forgive that.

_Irrelevant. Find John. _There is no way the police force would find John on their own.

_**:Wrong:**_ He texted and the officer's phones buzzed and beeped and chimed.

"Sherlock Holmes. We never found out how he did that," a female officer commented quietly to the man beside her. The man was still staring at his phone. Lestrade did not bother looking at his own, he was staring back at Sherlock's closet, his eyebrows raised.

"You're not going to find him by looking for a missing persons," Sherlock commented as he walked out of the closet. The door smacked some female cop. Hardly pertinent. "The greater question is what's the motive? If I find John, what happens? How could he win? What's the game?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the sudden _noise _in the room, grateful when it suddenly went silent again.

_What are they confused about? _Sherlock wondered, glancing around at the officers still staring at him. There wasn't anything complicated in that and they'd all worked the Moriarty case before. They knew how he liked to set up competitions. The officers all stared, many with their hands on their gun belts.

"Cheers, Sherlock," Lestrade growled.

"Game? God, Sherlock," Anderson said, looking like he was about to get ill. Still, he was at least on the right topic.

"If you're going to be sick, leave the room. It'd be distracting," Sherlock ordered, turning back to Lestrade. Didn't they see? This was had to happen _now. _

"So you just jumped, engineered it all, and never answered any of these texts?" Donovan demanded, pointing to the projector.

"What possible relevance could that have?" Sherlock asked, praying she'd have some kind of _reason _behind her question. She'd seemed halfway intelligent when she'd accused him of kidnapping and murder.

"Relevance?" she asked, sounding choked too, now.

"Yes, relevance, or have you already forgotten the case here?"

_What could _possibly _be more pertinent?_

And he was standing in this damn room with these idiots so they would help him find John, not slow him down.

"Okay, people, I know it's a tall task but we need to ignore our shock right now. Sherlock Holmes is alive and we have already determined that he's innocent so let us work with him. We have to get to work here. Quickly. I want a scouting between Watson's workplace and his home, Bart's hospital, 221B Baker Street, anything and everything people," he ordered and the room finally started to empty.

"Donovan, Anderson, Sherlock, stay here, let's get something resembling a plan going here."

"First of all, get a new phone set to that number; we're going to want to know the instant Sherlock is contacted again," Donovan suggested and Lestrade nodded.

A bright remark from her again; why was she half of the time so incessantly dimwitted?

There was nothing else to do but wait. Sherlock knew that and took a seat at the long table at the side of the room, stretching his legs out to get comfortable. He needed to figure out Moriarty's move, here. Whatever it was, it had been arranged before he died. If nothing else they did have proof that Moriarty was actually dead.

Unless Moriarty had been using yet another actor to play his words again – that he was the ghost writer behind that short man's words. Sherlock blinked, dismissing the idea. That had only really been a possibility up until the man and gone and shot himself through the skull. He couldn't pay a man enough for that one and regardless – he'd been too damn skilled – faking gay, leaving every subtle physical hint without being obvious, just enough to be utterly _boring – _irrelevant, he'd thought this before. No, Moriarty was dead, they were just watching his last move play out.

He needed to get in front, this time, find John faster than expected, before this whole thing had time to play out.

~~/~~


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Greg had to say, Sherlock wasn't making a very good case for himself.

He'd burst into the room, cursing people out for adding 'irrelevant details', answered no questions, and called it a game. He'd planted himself at the conference table, his fingers steepled together, back in his own little world like he hadn't just come out of the grave. Lestrade himself was struggling to remember why he'd thought the man had cared so very much for the doctor. He was sure he'd had evidence of it.

Lestrade brought in coffee for the man and Sherlock didn't even blink at him. Like any other 'semi interesting' case. The other detectives stared at him through the room's front windows but didn't say a word.

~~/~~

John was sure something was getting written into him now. One letter a day. Yesterday had been an 'a' or an 'e' or 'q', something horrible that looped. Didn't much matter; he couldn't get himself to stop shouting.

But he was getting sick. John lay on the cold concrete, staring at the bottle of water he'd been given for the day. He needed to clean his wounds, but he didn't have his hands.

John checked his bindings. They had ripped a bit further from his tugging, that day. He didn't dare chew on them further, not yet. If Mike replaced them again he'd be dead before he had time to get through the plastic again.

~~/~~

"We found a possible pick-up site," came over Lestrade's radio, two hours later. Sherlock was up like a shot, his chair flipping backwards, his eyes fixed on Lestrade's radio like he could force it to speak faster.

"Go ahead," Lestrade ordered and Charlie rattled off the address. Sherlock was out the door before he'd finished speaking, no doubt knowing there weren't two '17 Cottonfield Way's in London.

~~/~~

The crime scene was a back alley off of the Marylebone graveyard. Blood stains everywhere with bleach patterns burning most of the blood away. Sherlock skipped under the tape, ignoring the officers' shouts of protest, wanting to growl at them all. Lestrade would have to deal with them. For now they were too busy taking photo shots of his face with their camera phones. Idiots.

The crime scene set up looked far, far too familiar.

"This was done by a cop," Sherlock said, whirling around the scene though there wasn't much to check. The crime scene had been cleared following police procedure but there were faint blood stains all the same, seeped into the concrete. Rain had not washed it away yet; it was recent. Man was attacked, fought back, gun went off, someone died, bullet lodged into the opposite brick wall.

_Oh, god. _Murder was always the most likely scenario for missing person's cases but the text had seemed like so much more than Moriarty announcing that the game was done, that he'd already won. _John Watson. _Shot in an alleyway? It didn't make sense. Moriarty always wanted so much more.

"Donovan!" Lestrade shouted and Sherlock looked up to see the female cop about to punch him. She stopped short and was fuming now.

_What? Sentiment, but which? Right. _The cop comment, probably.

"It wasn't a fucking cop," she said and spat on him. Sherlock glanced down to see the saliva on his ugly bomber jacket. She'd confirmed it then, definitely sentiment.

"Actually, it was," Lestrade replied, sounding frustrated. Donovan whirled, looking shocked and disgusted.

_Of course, she'd believe him, when he's wrong almost 30% of the time, _Sherlock thought, before returning to the scene. There had to be _something _relevant here, something that could tell him _which it was. _Who had died? It was almost definitely the attacker.

"This is Charlie's murder scene from last week. He remembered where it was by this graveyard and let me know. I thought it sounded promising," Lestrade replied.

_Oh, _Sherlock thought, stopping, feeling his heart slow down. John had managed to kill one of the men capturing him, despite being caught by surprise. Somehow he always underestimated the man, who could make himself look so harmless. He should have thought of that; where was the body; he'd missed an entire fucking _body. _He wasn't thinking straight, images of John were clouding his thoughts. If it didn't stop he was going to lose this race. And yet still he could not stop fearful images of a dead corpse he had not seen from blocking his mind, consistently getting in the way. Sherlock hissed and strode from the scene; there was nothing left here.

~~/~~

Mike took pictures after, leaving John hanging on the chain, desperately trying to hold himself up on the rope. So, Moriarty was sending images to a dead man's phone.

_He's not dead, _John thought desperately. Which meant he was going to get those photos soon. Hope started pounding at him and John had to struggle not to pull desperately at the wireties between his hands. Sherlock would be coming for him.

Mike replaced the plastic on his hands again and John curled into a ball by the wall.

_Get me out of here, Sherlock. _

~~/~~

Sherlock knew Donovan still didn't trust him. She never left his side while he was glancing over the 'murder victim's' postmortem photos. It might have something to do with the fact that he'd stolen her desk but he doubted that was all of it and it was certainly still true that she didn't trust him. She'd said it four times since he'd reappeared in her world and he had very little reason to think she was lying; she hadn't barely taken her eyes off him and it'd been four hours now. He just had to hope it didn't slow down their investigation at all or he'd kill her before he went.

The postmortems didn't show anything. The man had taken a hit to the groin and a bullet wound to the stomach. The attacker had already been on the ground when he'd shot, but that had been fairly clear from the blood splatter at the scene. It didn't help to determine whether or not the shooter had been John and there was no way to determine height with a shooter on their knees. The shot had come left-handed, that much at least was pertinent. There just weren't that many left-handed people to disappear from around his graveyard in the last five days, but if the shooter had been completely unrelated, had just shot a mugger and walked home, they still had no information. Regardless, the victim's body was useless and yet he searched the photographs, cursing forensics for not running wholly unnecessary test on the body before it'd been buried to rot.

"Lestrade to Donovan," Donovan's walkie buzzed.

"Go ahead," she answered.

"Bring Sherlock back in. We've received...word," the man replied, his voice tense.

Tense, what did that mean? Sherlock stared at Donovan, searching for clues. Her face looked worried, nothing more. Useless. He bounded toward the conference room.

Tense could mean John was dead, had send a ransom note or an unpleasant photo, text, or audio file -two possibilities for defining unpleasant; physical or social. So screaming in pain or something sexual that Lestrade would find awkward – the sounds of pleasant sex was unlikely - as far as he'd heard John was not loud. A ransom note made little sense – Moriarty wanted nothing from him. So likely a photo or the sound of John suffering.

Sherlock threw himself toward the consulting room, letting the door slam open. It didn't make a noise against the wall and someone cursed; he'd hit someone again.

There was a giant photo of blood on the wall. Sherlock felt his brain clamp down. He was _thinking _now. That was better.

John was lying on his side on what looked like concrete, but it wasn't clear from the amount of blood coating it. It had dried black, despite its quantity and the dark room- _roughly twelve hours – _and had another layer of fresh seeping out around where the victim lay. The man was alive or very freshly dead, his skin too pink to be dead longer than a half hour. Freshly dead was unlikely – the pictures almost guaranteed that this was Moriarty's final move.

So, John was alive and more, Sherlock was getting clues, he had something to work with now.

"Oh, good," he muttered quietly before his brain reasserted himself and he focused. What were the _facts? _

The victim was alive. He'd clearly been beaten – the round bruises on his face suggested a flat surface – he'd been beaten into a wall or some kind of board had been used against him. A non-pliable board -it hadn't curved around to hit the front of his nose. No, the bruises -more likely made by slamming him against a wall -were four or five days old, deep purple from the blood turning black and the bulging was receding – that fit the time frame for occurring with his capture.

The bruises on his nose and the fracture there had been caused after – they were blue and purple but still bulged beneath the blow. He didn't have lesions on the corners of his mouth -hadn't been gagged, then; he was somewhere he could scream. That almost guaranteed he was in the outskirts of a city or beyond. He had bruises all across his arms and legs, but they seemed fainter as they approached his short sleeves – possibly made for show, then, but either way...

"Where's all the blood coming from?" Sherlock asked aloud. The picture was labeled at the side -8:07 AM, 1 of 3 in album. Did the other explain the blood?

"Jesus, Sherlock," Lestrade complained.

"The victim has been beaten and had his face smashed into a wall, four or more days ago, possibly during capture. His nose broken two to three days ago and beaten again yesterday or today – the picture isn't zoomed in close enough to be sure, but all of these appear to be obtained in capture and for show; they're more concentrated where they're be seen, becoming less frequent by the sleeves and shirt collar," Sherlock spelled out, pointing over the projected screen, hating the cops all the more for slowing him down. "So where is the blood coming from?"

"The victim?" Donovan sounded choked. "You mean John? John Watson? Your flatmate?"

Sherlock ignored her, focusing on Lestrade who might actually give him answers while the officers were busy ranting.

The man was staring at him like he'd never seen him before, looking ill. He had not been acting uncomfortable minutes before; sentiment driven discomfort, probably. Irrelevant.

"You really are a sociopath," Lestrade declared, sounding dazed.

"Is that news to you?" Sherlock sneered before ripping himself back to the image. He was _thinking; _that was all.

"Actually, yeah," Lestrade answered.

John was looking pale, too pale. Starving, cold, dehydrated?

_Stupid, stupid, _he chastised himself, seeing the corner of the man's bonds now. John was rolled on his shoulder, facing the camera but there was a glimpse of his hands beneath his chest. The wire ties were coated in blood and at a strange angle, tightened into the skin too far. They looked like they cut into their victim's wrists, which would explain the blood on his hands. Why would he have pulled so damn hard on bonds that he'd have known wouldn't give? Torture, then, or out of his mind desperately trying to get to someone else, or just plain out of his mind – which would again imply torture, of course. Torture seemed the most likely regardless, but then where had the blood come from? There was only old blood soaked into the chest of John's shirt; that hadn't soaked fully though -from the light look of it. So from the floor then; the outside. Was there a second person there or were there wounds the pictures didn't show?

"He's probably been tortured, look at his wrists. From struggling to get free," Sherlock said, in case they hadn't kept up.

"Jesus, Sherlock," Lestrade choked out again, from behind him.

~~/~~

"Sir? I agree with you that Sherlock didn't set up Richard Brook, that he was innocent of that whole affair and I'm glad that we've cleared his name, but please, I don't think we should trust him, sir," Donovan whispered to him at the back of the room. Greg couldn't help but agree with her; at that moment Sherlock was the most terrifying example of inhumanity he'd ever seen. The man was examining the photo of his tortured best friend, apparently more interested in dissecting the order the horror had taken place in than mourning at all. Hell, the man had muttered '_good' _when he'd seen the photos. Lestrade prayed he was the only one who'd heard it, but he doubted it. Assuming he was still on Sherlock's side anyway. This was making him seriously doubt it.

"Show me the second picture," Sherlock ordered and Lestrade had to think for a moment before he nodded to his tech guy to switch to the next photo. He did not want this man in his conference room, in Scotland Yard at all, for the first time in their acquaintance.

The second picture was almost the same; time signature thirty seconds later. Lestrade could barely make himself look at it but Sherlock flitted around the screen, blocking it with his body half the time, to peer closer at the damn thing.

_Jesus, Watson. _

"Brilliant," Sherlock muttered and Lestrade turned away to sit at the conference table, unable to watch the man anymore. He'd been so certain that Sherlock could feel; he would have sworn he's seen him hurt a few times, seen him peer at John with something like confusion in his eyes and something like want.

But he was muttering 'brilliant' now, asking the tech to zoom up on the concrete beneath John's bloody hands. Lestrade desperately wanted out of the room, just the image of Sherlock looking so _pleased _with whatever he'd found made him feel ill.

"Are we sure we're not staring at the perpetrator now, sir?" Donovan asked him quietly. Lestrade couldn't answer her. Sherlock would not have tortured this man, but the man certainly had no alibi, no evidence for him.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, finally turning away from the photo.

"You're not even calling him by his name," Sally accused. Sherlock blinked owlishly, like it hadn't occurred to him.

"Would that help him?" he asked, sounding actually curious.

_Christ. _

"God, no," Sally answered, turning away, looking similarly sick. Anderson was still leaning against the side of the wall, watching the whole thing, but Lestrade had a feeling he thought whatever Donovan did – and in three minutes Sherlock had summarily lost all of their trust again.

"Wait, you can hear!" Lestrade realized belatedly and watched as the other detectives turned back toward the man, suspicion open in their eyes.

Sherlock barely glanced at him.

"Evidently," he said derisively.

_Did he ever actually lose it? _They were dealing with a man that faked his own death for christsake. Sherlock turned back to the photograph, ignoring them again and Greg tried to ignore the doubt that kept licking at him, watching this man who had once been his friend. Donovan met his eyes, concerned, and he had nothing to say.

Sherlock went back to his work, explaining his great deductions and Lestrade tried desperately to keep his energy up, to consider every possibility. They still had a man to save. John's eyes were open in this picture, staring openly out at nothing.

"He's awake, rolling must have been painful but he did it between these two photos, see? He has moved his hands significantly, revealing this white line on the floor that is otherwise covered up by his body and the blood. He's smart; he thinks this would be helpful. Zoom up on his mouth. No, the edges of it. There, see? He hasn't been gagged. He'd have upturned lesions on his mouth, from where it'd be tied. His mouth has been punched, obviously, but not gagged. So if he's been tortured he's somewhere he can scream. That narrows the field down considerably; no one can avoid screaming during torture even under duress, so no, either he wasn't tortured or they let him scream. So it's _vital, _don't you see? Where did all the blood come from?" Sherlock explained.

_God, _back to that. Unfortunately Lestrade did understand, as did all his officers and they all followed suit with Sherlock and peered at the revolting image.

"His back, maybe? He's asleep in the other photo; why isn't his back against the wall? Unless he's in pain," Donovan suggested and yet again Lestrade found himself impressed. She was such a good damn cop.

"Yes, added to the evidence that he usually sleeps on his back, it seems quite likely," Sherlock stated, sitting down at the head of the table and tenting his fingers in front of his face. He continued to stare at the photo, his blue eyes almost unblinking.

_You know how he sleeps? _Lestrade thought, frowning, and Donovan glanced at him, clearly equally confused. He would never want to live with Sherlock Holmes.

"He's inside, that's clear from the lights, somewhere with concrete floors and walls, with a white line painted on the floor. An old factory, a parking garage, an airplane hanger, a traffic tunnel?" Sherlock demanded.

The room went quiet finally and Lestrade tried to think of anything the man hadn't already mentioned. Somehow in one sentence the man seemed to have exhausted all the possibilities he could think of at all.

"Bomb shelter?" Eugene suggested and Sherlock didn't look up to mock him. So presumably a good idea – Lestrade had no idea.

"Uh, sir, we've got another text on that phone," the new tech guy – Darrell? - interrupted.

_Oh hell. _

"Excellent, pull it up," Sherlock ordered, lifting his eyes away from the photograph for the first time in minutes.

Lestrade focused on Sherlock while the tech guy busied himself on his laptop doing god-knew-what. Sherlock's eyes were darting about the room but other than that, he was the picture of repose, relaxed against the back of the chair, his long legs stretched out beneath the table, kicking into Lestrade's space. It could be any other interesting case; he'd seen that exact expression and pose on the man dozens of times.

Suddenly, though, he stilled, his whole body freezing though it'd seemed so still before. His face slowly lost its color, his eyes focusing on one point in the room and one point only.

_The screen, _Lestrade thought, turning his head.

_Oh Jesus. _John was hanging from the ceiling by his hands, his shirt off now. Just his back and blood-matted head of hair were clear in the photograph and his back – Lestrade had to look away to swallow rapidly. Oh hell; someone had been _skinning _him, writing 'Sherl' – obviously they weren't done.

"That'd be where the blood came from," Anderson said quietly. Lestrade glanced at Sherlock but the man was still frozen, just staring.

"It looks like the beatings weren't only for display. They continue down his whole back," Donovan added and Lestrade forced himself to look at the picture again, where blood was seeping into John's jeans. The back of the photograph was nothing but a concrete wall, confirming nothing but that they were inside.

"Sir, there's an audio file," Darrell mentioned quietly. Greg glanced at the still detective and sighed, unsure if he was seeing emotion or not. The man was just still, his eyes darting about the photograph for clues.

"Play it," he ordered numbly.

At first all they got was rough breathing and the heavy sound of dripping. Blood, Lestrade thought. Then the sound of a blow torch and a very desperate moaning.

_Hold on, Watson._

The sound of sizzling, like steak, before John screamed. And screamed. The sizzling stopped and the blowtorch started again – _heating something up -_behind the sounds of Watson sobbing.

He was saying something, Greg realized belatedly, motioning for Darrell to turn it up.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock," the man was begging. John thought that Sherlock was dead, and still he called for him. Jesus. Sherlock just stared at the picture on the screen, still not moving. The sizzling started again and John screamed Sherlock's name. The clip cut off.

Lestrade jerked back in his chair as Sherlock suddenly leaped away from the table, all motion again. He barreled about the room, talking under his breath, his hands up and ripping at his hair.

"Okay, allowed to scream, outskirts of London or rural basement somewhere. The building looked large, that concrete wall was thick enough for the fish eye hook that chained him and the ceiling could hold his weight. Big building also suggests outskirts of London. Somewhere abandoned, broken down and most likely nonresidential. The building's white line, that says something. Parking garage, factory, bomb shelter, traffic tunnel – not likely, the walls aren't curved and the white line is perpendicular to it," the man muttered, running his hands through his hair and ripping again. His eyes were wide, spinning about the room without seeing anything.

Greg could _feel_ when the tension in the room dissipated. Apparently they all understood at the same time; Sherlock Holmes hid in his head with his facts and he was losing it. He wasn't a sociopath, he was a genius falling apart.

"Parking garage, bomb shelter, factory, which? We need more information, more clues, where are they? Stupid, these are the clues, just not enough to solve it, only to keep me interested while we wait. Moriarty is still playing his _fucking _games."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, looking utterly defeated.

"Wait, Moriarty is alive too?" Donovan looked offended by the idea. Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at her quickly.

"No, he shot himself. He'd just already set this up. Presumably because he knew I was going to fake it or couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't," Sherlock replied absently, still facing away from the pictures, staring into the mostly empty room. "There are 352 abandoned factories or parking garages in the city. I have no number for bomb shelters and he may not be in London," Sherlock announced.

Donovan walked over to the conference table and leaned beside Greg.

"So what now?" she asked quietly. "We can't just wait."

"Play the screams again. Determine as much as we can," Sherlock answered, roaming around the room with his hands clasped under his chin again. Donovan met Greg's eyes, looking worried. But they had to find John.

"Play it again," Greg ordered.

"What's that dripping?" Anderson asked as the clip started.

"Blood," Sherlock and Greg answered together.

"Presumably," Sherlock added, tipping his head back on his neck. "So he's being burned, obviously. But there were no burn marks on his body. Is this an old photograph, then?" Sherlock asked aloud as the clip continued. "No, no, stupid, look at the edges, they're cut off," he said to himself, staring up at the photo.

"Edges?" Greg asked, hating himself but needing to keep up.

"The letters. There are burns around the edges of the cuts. The letters are burned in first, before he's skinned," Sherlock answered, before stopping. "Burn you, skin you, Moriarty used all these threats in front of John, just never said them to him...Irrelevant," Sherlock muttered to himself before the sound of the flame broke off – the tool was hot – and Sherlock stepped backwards suddenly, as if he could escape it. The screaming started again and Sherlock walked calmly up to the side of the wall and started tapping against it lightly, walking down the wall as if looking for a stud. Greg watched him, confused, and felt himself jerk in surprise when Sherlock suddenly punched his hand through the drywall. The wall _crunched_ in and Sherlock withdrew his fist slowly. For an insane moment Greg expected Sherlock to reveal some clue, some brilliance hidden in their conference room wall that he'd just exposed, but Sherlock just walked away from the hole, his fist bleeding.

"That chamber echoes. It's a big room," he commented, wiping his hand off on his fine shirt. "The lighting in that photo confirms it. Play the clip again."

They left at nine o'clock, when Lestrade declared that after ten hours they weren't getting anything more off the ten seconds of audio. Sherlock stayed as they filed out and put the clip on repeat.

~~/~~

Sally knew why she felt guilty, now. Sherlock didn't seem like a psychopath anymore – he looked like was halfway through a damn breakdown, striding around the room in circles, muttering to himself and punching the wall every hour, like clockwork.

Sally punched her pillow and flipped over to glare at the ceiling, hating herself even more. Sherlock wasn't a sociopath and Moriarty was terrifyingly real. Or, at least, had been. She had been utterly wrong, despite all the evidence on her side.

Then why had Sherlock jumped? It grated on her now. Such an illogical decision from such a man, to care about his reputation so much. She'd destroyed that; was that why he'd jumped? But then, why fake it? He'd lost Watson for that. It was obvious the man had not known; John Watson had been destroyed that day. The thought grated even more.

It didn't matter. She owed him horribly.

Sally rolled out of her bed and reached for her uniform. Sleep would come when John Watson was back at Scotland Yard.

She got into the station at something past midnight and heard the clip playing in the conference room. She shuddered and headed to her desk to pull up a plan of the city and a list of the condemned buildings. This was going to take a long damn time.

~~/~~

Sherlock brought his head up, his eyes widening. The dripping wasn't just close by. There was some of it fainter, further off from the mic, not likely to be blood coming off of two locations. There was too much blood in the pictures for John to have left enough to be dripping elsewhere and still be alive enough to scream. No, this was different dripping, which was almost irrelevant because _everything _dripped; it'd rained three times in the last six days and there was no guarantee when that clip was made.

Sherlock played the clip again. Useless. He slammed his hand into the wall again when he thought he might be panicking, cracking the stud he'd found. He'd have to find a different one, now.

He left the conference room, though he wasn't quite sure where he should go. He needed more evidence, that clip wasn't long enough; there wasn't enough there to work with.

_John. God. _They'd barely even started together. The man made him feel _alive, _like a man,more than a thinking thing. Gave him something like cocaine, but sex did not make him dependent, did not mean he could not think without it. He could reboot, scatter his thoughts and have to organize them again, see what shook free. He could not do that without John. Masturbation was revolting and it made him remember how the man smelled and sounded. It was a distraction and that was all.

"There's coffee hot," a woman's voice sounded out in the empty office room and Sherlock started, whipping around to locate the noise. He was never startled; what was wrong with him?

_Sentiment. _

He spotted Donovan sitting on the floor surrounded by maps, watching him curiously.

"Maps?" he mused aloud, trying to come up with the possibilities, to narrow them down. She was sitting by a stack of papers she kept referencing as she placed little stickers on the map. It was dotted with hundreds of little blue and red markers, throughout the map of London, mostly on the outskirts.

_Oh._

"I'm mapping out -"

"Obviously," Sherlock cut her off, approaching her slowly, yet another thing he should have thought of. Should already have been doing.

He sat down on the floor on the other side of the map and grabbed the next sheet of the list of condemned buildings and infrastructures within the Scotland Yard jurisdiction lines.

He'd like to just read down the list, make the map in his head but he was too stupid, too blinded by sentiment; he was going to need the collective powers of Scotland Yard to get through this, and they needed the map. And there was nothing else to do. Lestrade was right; there was nothing more to find in the ten second audio clip.

"Red's abandoned buildings, blue's tunnels and infrastructures," he confirmed. Donovan nodded quickly.

"There's no database on bomb shelters and no logged information on whether any of these have basements," she said. Sherlock read down the list, updating the map he already had in his head.

"Thank you," he answered absently, glancing over the rest of the list sheets.

"We're not going to be able to find him unless Moriarty wants him found," Donovan said quietly, glancing up at him. Sherlock wanted to gut her. Irrelevant and hopeless. Obvious. But there was nothing better to do than talk, it didn't matter. There was nothing else to be doing.

"Your point?" he asked, memorizing the rest of the sheet.

"That it's no one's fault that he's there but the men doing this to him," Donovan replied. Ah. She was trying to be comforting. It was not his fault that John had gone four days without being reported missing. He could not have known the man was so alone. But he had known. Of course he had known; that had been made obvious by an expensive cellular phone and he had lived with John Watson. Anyone would have known. It was not him torturing the man, that was true, but he would hardly have thought that. He'd been in America at the time.

"Man," Sherlock corrected, not bothering to reply to the rest of the statement, as equally false as it was.

"What?" she asked, glancing up.

"There's only one set of footsteps in the clip," he said, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of his forehead as he thought. Donovan went silent, continuing on her map, and Sherlock grabbed a handful of pins to help fill it in.

~~/~~

Damn, but it was impressive watching Sherlock Holmes stick in tack after tack, never hesitating, never referring to the sheet again.

Just sitting next to that machine of a mind was intimidating. Donovan focused on her work, trying to ignore the guilt that bit at her and her embarrassment at checking the sheet between each pin.

~~/~~


	8. Chapter 8

**Please review?**

Chapter 8

"Why do you scream for Sherlock Holmes?" Mike asked when the letter and photos were finally done. "I mean you have to admit, there's kind of a weird thing going on here."

The rope above him released and John tumbled to the floor. He never was able to catch himself.

"He was my friend," John answered, rolling his head as the man pulled a wrapped-up sandwich from a brown bag in front of him.

"Yeah, but I have lots of friends but I wouldn't scream their names on my deathbed," the man said, tossing him the food. John saw it land by his head and scrambled for it, ignoring how his body screamed as he sat up. It always screamed; he needed food.

It was remarkably odd to see a common Brewers Fayre hamburger in his hand in the middle of hell.

_I can use this, _he thought desperately, opening the wrapper as fast as he could, hoping he was subtle when ripped the label off. Then he smelled the food and it was all he could do not to forget his plan as he tore into the meal.

"Also, I doubt you appreciate this, but I am really fucking bored," the man said, sitting down in his chair. "This is without a doubt the worst job I've ever worked."

John glanced up, not sure he was supposed to respond and went back to his food.

"Are you always this quiet?" the man asked him finally. John thought about it. He'd already decided he wasn't stupid enough to lie to his torturer about stupid shite and he wasn't starting now. He needed to come off as an open, normal bloke. A man with no secrets to find.

"Mostly, yeah," he answered, thinking about all he'd been after he'd retired from the army. He just didn't start conversation much. Or continue it for long.

_Except with Sherlock, _he realized, his mouth quirking slightly as he remembered going off on the man. '_People don't have arch-enemies'._

"I'm not actually into torture, by the way. And I don't do anything for free. I'm not going to hurt you just 'cause I'm bored," the man mentioned, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. "They always get that wrong in movies."

God, John was grateful. He was damn lucky, of the apparent myriad of sadists in the world, Moriarty had chosen – _fucking grateful? _Was this how Stockholm Syndrome developed then? Was he watching it happen in his own brain?

_Fuck that then. _He was going to stay sane. Mike was a man for hire and Moriarty was insane; he'd dealt with both. And he would keep his mind, if it took force of will to do so.

"Do you want to play cards? We've got two hours before I start again. I've got a stack," the man gestured toward the ramp, where he disappeared after each session. John glanced over quietly, though he doubted he was going to come up with some brilliant escape scheme with it when he could barely walk.

"No thank you," he answered, deciding not to flash the plastic around his hands any more than he had to.

Mike shrugged and John did his best to push the wrapper into his blood-crusted jeans pocket without it making any noise.

_Two hours until I start again. _

~~/~~

Lestrade and the other useless officers wandered in sometime later and mumbled about for hours with nothing useful to add; most of them wandering out again for other cases.

Sherlock sat at someone's computer, looking up each of the red dots on Google streetview, marking the ones built up with brick. It was possible John's prison had concrete internal or basement walls but it was less likely. Someone was _screeching_ in his ear about their private space but Sherlock was _finally _able to concentrate again, away from that horrible clip. Donovan worked beside him, plugging in addresses and narrowing the options and staying silent, thank god.

The facts kept circling around in his head, still not narrowing anything down. Concrete, inside, internal lights – had a ceiling, power was on, no window light, ceiling strong enough to hold up John – that was a modern ceiling, not rotted out, not an abandoned residence, then, or not abandoned for long. Straight walls, probably not a tunnel. Abandoned concrete building then, most likely a factory or parking garage, given the concrete walls and white line on the floor. 112 options. Still far too many.

They got another photo and it had no new information. One more letter. A letter a day, as expected. Five full days of captivity, then, definitely. And no way to find him. Sherlock kept plugging in addresses, trying not to think about what happened when they finished carving his name on John's back. Did they only have two more days, then?

He narrowed down buildings. 67 had concrete walls, implying a concrete floor and internal structure. Lestrade and the rest went home that night, saying there was nothing more they could do. The first was a valid statement but Sherlock couldn't get himself to leave, even with nothing more to get done. He set himself in the conference room with the new picture and stared at it, but no new information was forthcoming.

"You should eat," someone said by his ear.

"John?" He called, looking up from where he was staring at the picture, to see Donovan standing at the conference room doorway. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his lungs.

_Stupid. Sentiment is clouding everything. _

For a moment, her mouth softened, looking pityingly at him. Sherlock grimaced and glanced away, embarrassment swamping him.

_Obvious._

"Watson tell you that a lot, then?" she asked quietly. Sherlock turned his head to scowl at her, glancing her over, trying to find some weakness to attack.

"It's fine," he said instead, turning away. He didn't want to think about anything else. John was going to die, at this rate.

"He took care of you, didn't he?" she asked and Sherlock focused on the screen. "And you're a right wreck now."

"Go back to your maps, useless as they are," Sherlock snarled finally.

"There's nothing more to be done," she replied. Correct again. "Come on," she ordered and Sherlock turned, surprised out of his focus. He glanced her over. _What was going -_ "Food, you need it. Let's go," she ordered.

"I never eat while on a case. Digestion interferes with my thinking," Sherlock replied, wincing as he remembered John and had to shove it down again.

"Then it's best to eat while there is no new information," Donovan replied.

Reasonable argument. Flawed, but reasonable.

"Or, better, simply not to," Sherlock countered, turning away.

"Not if this investigation lasts for another week," she replied. Sherlock glanced up, catching her meaning. -C.K. H.O.L.M.E.S.

"I'll eat after we get to the K," he said, "Then it's irrelevant. John would likely already be dead and we'd have no new information forthcoming."

Donovan was quiet for a while and Sherlock felt his brain flitting around, nothing new to study at all.

"Yeah," she said finally and closed the door after her.

~~/~~

He usually focused on Sherlock, during the pain. On his partner rushing in, like with the Shun case, all drama and fancy facts about the curvature of the walls. He tried to keep his mind on how he'd help the man, what he'd do in every scenario Mike put him in. He concentrated on the feeling of Sherlock breaking the plastic ties, giving him a gun so he could blow Mike's brain out. On the sound that would make, on Sherlock's hands and voice and chest he'd missed so damn much, his eyes bright with some far-fetched possibility. Today he focused on _not dropping the note, _even as he screamed.

~~/~~

"Zoom up on his hand," Sherlock ordered, feeling hope rise in his chest. The tech obeyed, revealing a crunched up label in John's hand.

"Brewer's Fayre," Anderson said quietly. Sherlock glanced up, praying it was something actually important.

"What?" he hissed. The man hesitated and Sherlock stalked toward him. "What do you know?"

"John's er-" Anderson blinked at him, looking concerned and started speaking faster. Good. "That's Brewer's Fayre packaging in his hands, right? The ...fast food chain?"

Sherlock glanced around. People stared at him, but they were nodding. Apparently that was common knowledge. John was still trying to give them hints.

_Unless this was some ruse? _If so, they'd never find the man and he was dead regardless. They had to trust this. John was near a Brewer's Fayre and an open one. He'd have to research how many existed in England.

"I'll make the calls," Donovan said, walking out. He followed. He needed that information.

~~/~~

John tried something everyday, to give Sherlock hints while he chewed the plastic around his hands. He held his hand in the sign for 'car' and prayed he'd managed to hold it throughout the torture, to when the picture flashed. He wasn't sure. He didn't know anything else and after the seventh? Tenth? day he just flopped to the floor when the torture stopped and got to his blanket as best he could, which mainly meant crawled. He ate his food and drank his water and prayed for Sherlock to come. He emptied his bowels in his pants the first time, somewhere in that period, and stripped them off, after. Mike threw water on him and the spot and took the pants away, cursing horribly and John came to want them back; he was so cold. He stayed cold and in pain but he always knew when the burn was coming and he held his weight up on his arms, though he couldn't remember why. It'd had something to do with staying sane, he thought.

~~/~~

They got another text.

**:Are you angry at me, Sherlock? For breaking the rules of our little game?:**

Useless.

~~/~~

Sally watched Sherlock sit at the conference table, staring at the latest photo of John's back, and knew what the man was thinking. Everyone did. They'd run out of time, without barely getting further in the chase at all; eight days – S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K written fully, and a text from Moriarty's man. They might be done.

"Come eat," she ordered.

"Busy," Sherlock responded without looking up.

"Then be busy eating," she ordered again. He didn't answer her, continuing to stare raptly at the picture of John hanging from the ceiling, dripping with blood.

"You said you would," she said and Sherlock looked up.

"What?" he asked, sounding utterly confused.

_Did you hear any of this? _

"You said you'd eat. Let's go," she ordered, stepping back. She felt her eyebrows shoot up when the man slowly pushed his seat back away from the conference table. She didn't think she'd seen him rise from it for half a day at least. Apparently he kept his word.

Surprised as hell that the man actually obeyed, Sally led the way out of the conference room, relieved to get away from the horrible photographs. At least they hadn't gotten another audio clip. The entire team was going to need a paid vacation after this one; if not counseling.

She led the way to the slow diner across the street, having a feeling she wouldn't be able to convince the genius to go much further.

~~/~~

"We'll get him, Sherlock," Donovan said, sounding confident. Sherlock glanced around the room, uselessly wanting John.

"Mmm. Likely not," He replied. He turned his head to face her so his eyes would stop scanning for John's face in the crowded place and caught Donovan staring at him, looking shocked.

"I don't understand you. Sometimes you seem so human," she said. He ignored the blow.

"I do not lie to myself. Is that a bad thing?" he asked idly, following the waitress to their seats. It was a booth by the window and Sherlock sat facing the entrance, too aware he was in John's seat. Irrelevant – the man was likely still hanging by a hook in an undisclosed location. A waitress handed him a menu and he took it automatically. It confused them when he didn't.

"It is if it means you don't have hope. Do you know what you want?" Donovan asked.

"False hope is worse than useless and yes," he replied. The waitress looked to him for his order.

Donovan gestured to him to start. He gestured back.

"Your usual, then, Sally?" the waitress asked. 'Sally' smiled at the woman and nodded.

"The same," Sherlock replied immediately. Sally glanced at him, looking confused, before snorting suddenly into her glass of water. Apparently she'd figured it out.

"Just don't care, ey?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Not one of my interests, no," he said, glancing out of the window next to him. The day had passed quickly, and it was already dark. John would wake up to another torture tomorrow, if they were lucky.

"Food isn't an 'interest' to most people. It's just taste buds. Tastes good or bad; it's not like a hobby," she said.

"You devote brain power to processing that. It therefore interests you," Sherlock replied, knowing this was one of those moments when he just didn't quite 'fit'.

"You really don't notice what doesn't interest you?" she asked and Sherlock looked back at her. She sounded like John.

"Why would I?" he asked. Surely that was clear? Why would he process something enough to determine it not worth considering and then think about it further anyway?

Okay, so like, what's Anderson's first name?" she asked. Sherlock blinked at her. He could figure it out, remember conversations long past, try to see who was there, what names were said, narrow it down. Hardly worth doing. He was an idiot.

"You don't know," she said, laughing and sitting back. "You've worked with him for five years? You notice a tiny pinch of dust at the side of the room looking different and don't know Anderson's name?"

"I could figure it out," he defended, "I'm just not going to."

"It's James," she said, still staring at him, open mouthed.

_Why was it so strange? What use was the name if he responded to Anderson?_

"Why would I care? All I care about is the work," he said but Donovan glanced at him, looking like she knew some secret about him. Proud and stupidly mysterious. Tiresome.

"And John. You can't tell me you don't care about John," she said, confident now. Apparently punching a wall had helped, somehow. He should do it more often, when their doubts became troublesome.

"Why would I tell you that?" Sherlock deflected, hoping she'd go off on some rant about his attitude. He didn't want to talk about John. John was hanging on a hook soon to die.

"Because you hide behind calling yourself a sociopath," she answered, smiling slightly as she leaned back in the booth chair. There was mustard there; someone had ordered the hotdog.

"I am a sociopath," Sherlock answered immediately.

_From so comfortable that I'm a psychopath to so comfortable that I'm one of the angels. _

"No you're not," she said confidently and she sounded like John again. "But here's one thing I can't figure out; I realized that by watching you see John in pain. Obviously John didn't see that, so how did he figure it out? You seem utterly devoid of feeling and yet he never believed it, did he?"

Sherlock wished their food would come so she could focus on something else. He glared at the woman but she didn't back down.

"I don't know," he answered finally and shifted his gaze out the window where there was nothing to deduce. It was dark out, but London hid the stars, thank god.

"He's a good man, John Watson," Donovan mentioned quietly. Sherlock ignored her. That would hardly help find him.

Their food arrived and he forced himself to eat. Some sort of pasta dish.

"If it helps at all, which given I rather doubt, I am sorry about not trusting you," she said finally. Sherlock looked up from his food, confused again.

_This is tiring. _

"Why? You were right," he said. Her eyes widened slightly and she started to breathe heavier. Nervous or excited and she glanced over him, searching for something – Why would... - Ah. "And no, I am not confessing," he said, rolling his eyes. "But you had far more solid ground to stand on believing I did kidnap those children than that I didn't. The evidence was clear and you followed it, unlike the rest of the idiots at Scotland Yard," he stated.

Donovan stayed quiet a moment, presumably thinking. Bored, Sherlock went back to thinking about abandoned basements, though there wasn't enough left to consider.

~~/~~

Sally thought she was starting to understand John Watson more and more. Sherlock was a prick; there was no doubting that, but in some ways it really did seem like he didn't mean to be. He really didn't notice James' name, really didn't find the value in something if it wasn't relevant, but only _most _of the time. She saw him tip his head, looking out the window to check for stars. And god, she'd never forget seeing that utterly _brilliant _man darting about a room, pulling his hair, punching walls, gone half insane with fear for his friend.

Sherlock could be polite, could be disarming and friendly if he wanted. She'd seen him do it for cases before; it'd always disgusted her how he'd lied. No, who he really was was the arse that talked about his dying best friend in a totally clinical way, and then very carefully chose the section of wall to smash his fist through. An insane man of total, total extremes. And Sherlock didn't hide that, didn't lie about who he was; which meant in John Watson he'd been able to find someone who _liked _him for who he was, though Sally still couldn't figure out why John wanted to spend so much time with the man.

"Why does John like spending time with you?" she asked finally when she finished her meal, knowing Sherlock would have thought about it and guessing he wouldn't even know that it was a rude question to ask; That or he wouldn't care.

"Mmm. Five possibilities. He craves danger, which I'm always in; wants his work to be important and values mine over his own; needs someone to take care of and I'm frequently a wreck by his judgment; finds me attractive and relates to my sense of humor. I know the last two are true, the rest are all equally likely and probably all true to a degree," Sherlock listed quickly before pushing his food away from himself, apparently done. He'd certainly thought about it.

And he definitely didn't seem to understand the concept of a too-personal question. That would explain a lot, really.

"Why?" he asked her suddenly, looking up from sipping his drink.

"Just trying to figure something out," she replied, wondering if John knew Sherlock was going around revealing that the doctor found him attractive. Given, he'd certainly done so before in front of Watson.

"_Come on, John! There's an owl in our bedroom I want to get back to," he demanded, striding for the cab_.

"_If it's not about the case, leave me alone; I'm too busy for sex. You know that," Sherlock stated without looking up from his laptop._

_Added to the evidence that he sleeps on his back..._

_Oh. My. God. _Sally knew she was staring at the man.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his blue eyes suddenly looking onto her like she was the most interesting thing in the world. Okay, she could understand why John was attracted to this man. Sherlock's eyes furrowed. "You're attracted to me now. You've never been attracted to me before. What changed?" he demanded, scanning her with his eyes. Sally felt her eyes widen, praying the whole diner had not heard him. They likely had. He was rarely truly quiet.

Okay, no, she still didn't understand how John could stand to live with the man, much less want to.

_Oh my god. _They were really together. They were _openly _together. She'd just been such an idiot. Did everyone else know? There were jokes about it in the Yard, of course, but were they not jokes? Had she just missed it entirely? He'd talked about them having sex in _front of her _and she'd still missed it; she'd never imagined this man had any interest in such things at all, had always assumed it was a lie meant to serve some manipulative purpose.

"You were with John," she stated. His eyes furrowed. "I mean sexually," she confirmed.

"How was that not obvious?" he demanded and she ran a hand down her face.

"Because I'm an idiot," she replied and he nodded quickly, apparently needing no further explanation.

_Oh god, Sherlock, _she thought, her gaze darting over the man. His _partner _was hanging by that hook, and he couldn't even walk away; Sherlock Holmes was the only man in the world who could solve this one.

_Jesus, Sherlock. _

And John Watson was _partners_ with this man. The tantrums, the silences, the hunger strikes.

"You're wondering why John puts up with me," Sherlock commented. Sally felt her eyes flick back up to meet his gaze.

"Well, yes," she admitted, glad for a moment that Sherlock did not seem to understand any social norms, when she was currently breaking all of them.

"Do let me know when you figure it out," Sherlock replied, taking out his wallet and counting out bills. He'd apparently calculated out the bill on his own.

"Ever consider treating him better?" Sally asked and Sherlock's eyes flickered. He looked... hurt, for a moment and Sally thought over her words, cursing. His partner was hanging by a hook on a concrete ceiling, for shit's sake. She was an idiot.

"I mean, say, don't leave eyeballs in the microwave, for example?" Sally rushed to say, to fix it. Sherlock had looked so wounded,but only for a moment and then he was back to being the smartest, least approachable person in the room.

"That was a useful experiment," Sherlock defended and for a moment he sounded like a child, whiny and utterly devoid of understanding. It was dizzying to watch his extremes. "which you ruined, by the way," he added.

_How does Watson stand it?_

"I mean, you've known me five years and you don't know my name," Sally added.

"Sally," Sherlock replied, smirking at her slightly before throwing the bills on the table and striding for the door.

Sally felt herself smile as she stood up to follow him. It was definitely a heady experience, just having that utterly brilliant, focused mind noticeyou. For a moment she could almost envy the doctor – to have Sherlock Holmes turn that gaze to him, full of passion. It had to be a heady sight. She followed behind the man, shaking her head as she remembered Sherlock's rants and tantrums and eyeball behavior and decided to leave well enough quite alone. She'd never be able to put up with the man.

But she could see why one would want to.

~~/~~

Sally woke up at the conference table to see Sherlock tearing around the room, in and out of the conference room. John's screams were playing on repeat again – Sally knew she was going to have nightmares of them – and John's pictures spun on the projector, one after another.

S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K -H-

The ninth day. And they'd gotten the H.

_Oh, thank god. _

Still, no extra clues that she could see in the photograph. No great enlightenment, no saving grace of a madman's brilliant mind, nothing but concrete, dripping, echoes, straight walls and a white line. Not enough, for all of London and perhaps beyond it.

But they'd gotten the H, Sally reminded herself, forcing herself to look at John's torn back.

The police force trickled in slowly, no one talking to each other, and Sally stared at her map of blue and red marks spread over the conference table, seeing nothing.

~~/~~

John kept himself carefully wrapped up in the blanket Mike had thrown to him and ignored the tugging on his back when the fibers got stuck; heat was more important.

He was getting better at chewing through plastic. He spent his time chewing and memorizing everything he could; he knew how long it took the man to come around the corner from where he slept, how quickly he could move despite his injuries and the cough that wouldn't go away. His teeth hurt constantly.

He wouldn't stop to sleep, that night. Mike hadn't replaced the plastic the day before, such a small oversight, but he was faster at chewing now; he'd have to pray he'd gotten fast enough.

~~/~~

**: I only ever cut at 8:00. Aren't you going to save him, Sherlock Holmes? JM: **

~~/~~


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 19

"Parking Garage," Sherlock declared, barely glancing at the photograph.

"What?" Greg demanded, excitement jolting him awake.

_God, let the man have figured something out. _

"His hand, there," Sherlock answered, pointing. He didn't sound excited, but at least he sounded confident. Greg forced himself to look at the mangled hand, held up from the ceiling by bloody rope. It looked like it was bent into a claw, only two of its fingers and a thumb sticking out of the rope. "It's an ASL three; often used to denote cars. 'Three' gives us nothing, ergo he must mean 'car' or 'helicopter," Sherlock replied.

"Or an airplane, presumably, any transportation?" Sally asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"That's a different classifier," he responded and Lestrade nodded though he had no idea what that meant.

"Hopefully John knows that," Sally responded, glancing over the map, "airplane hanger would give us enough information to end this."

Sherlock glanced at her and nodded.

"I don't know," he replied.

_Shite. _

Sally glanced at him again and pulled a blue pin out of the map. Sherlock nodded and she continued, stripping everything but the red pins.

"You don't seem excited," Charles commented.

"67 options," Sherlock replied. "How long do you expect him to live, with that much blood loss?"

The officers went quiet and Greg winced. There was no way to maintain morale in a case like this but.. _Christ._

"Let's go over what we know again, now that we know more," Donovan replied, taking out the last of the blue pins.

Christ, but she was a damn good cop.

~~/~~

John heard Mike start to putter around behind the wall in the morning, but there was no turning back; the wire ties were hanging by a thread.

_Christ. _If this attempt failed, he'd be too damn sick to try anything again.

_If I'm not already, _he thought, sighing as he desperately pulled at the binds at his wrists, clenching his teeth as pain shot across his back and arms. It would be appropriately ironic, he thought, to live through all of his military career, Sherlock's faked death, and a campaign against professional hit men and escape from Moriarty's torture only to die of the subsequent pneumonia.

The plastic broke with a definitive _click. _

_Oh thank god, _he thought, pulling his hands into his lap and rolling on the floor to leave his back to Mike's hidden sleeping area. He hadn't felt so damn naked in the whole bloody ordeal; he had nowhere to hide the plastic.

_Fuck, _he thought desperately, unsure if he had the time to get it behind one of the walls and back and god forbid Mike hear him.

_I can't waste the energy. _

He wasn't going to get away from this one running. His feet were bound with no good way of freeing them and he was too damn sick. Sweat coated his body despite the cold; he didn't even want to think about moving. Which meant he needed to move fast and buy himself time.

Mike's footsteps padded closer and John felt the rush of adrenaline and fear press through him at the sound.

_Use that, _he ordered himself, allowing his shivers to intensify as he lay on the concrete, doing his very best to look as utterly depleted as he felt.

_Just one burst of power, that's all I need, _he told himself, desperately trying to push energy into his muscles, preparing to spring.

The footsteps stopped at his back and John prayed the man wouldn't kick him awake, wouldn't deviate from his routine.

_Just reach down, grab my head to keep it still, shake me, _John prayed, listening to the man's clothing rustle behind him. _Come on. _

The touch didn't come and John felt his eyes squeeze tight.

_Hell. _

John felt something brush against his hair and waited, concentrating on his breathing. He'd taught the man that he didn't wake up easily, that he didn't fight and the man always leaned down, shook him.

_What type of soldier is hard to wake up?_ No one ever read his military file.

The grip tightened. John rolled, letting his back scream in pain and his hair snag against the man's grip. Mike was leaning down, one knee almost against the cement and John grabbed his elbow and _yanked _forward and to the side, away from the man's point of balance. Mike recovered in time, pulling his weight back into his knees to regain his balance and John threw his bound legs into the man's knee. The knee _cracked _backwards and John let himself breathe out.

The man tipped again and John pulled him, letting the man land on him. He had no choice; he was too damn slow to risk getting out of the way and losing the upper hand. Once he lost this advantage the fight would be done without question. John coughed as the man's weight slammed into his chest but kept his grip on the chain that had bound him. Mike attempted to roll away and John wrapped the chain around his neck quickly; praying the man would be too slow to stop him. The chain synched down around Mike's throat and the man slammed himself backward. John's head cracked against the cement but he held on, glad he hadn't lost his breath. John coughed anyway, the man's weight too heavy for him; he was too sick, too weak for this. His arms were shaking, trying to keep his hold on the chain as Mike reached for him.

~~/~~

"And if he'd dead, what will you do?" Sally asked quietly and Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall to peer at the picture of John's body hanging from a ceiling.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock replied and Sally felt herself wince. He was utterly unpredictable, she thought. Until John Watson was found alive, the man wasn't getting out of her sight.

"Let's go eat," she ordered and Sherlock shook his head.

"Six days," he answered. "And John won't live to the end of them regardless. Moriarty's man for hire is inexperienced."

Sally winced again and went to get food. She'd leave it in front of the man, see if that worked.

~~/~~

This wasn't going to work. The chain was tied around the man's neck like a single knot; it'd never get tight enough and he didn't have time.

John pulled the chain tighter and held it with one hand, throwing out the other to grab the shortened wiretie that had held him. He got it with his fingers and grabbed the chain again. His vision tunneled suddenly and John forced himself to suck in a deep breathe despite the force of Mike slamming against his chest.

He didn't have the energy for this. He had to take a risk. John tried to prepare the wiretie as best he could but there was only so much he could do. He held the plastic strip, still connected to the chain and waited, holding on and pretending to weaken worse than he already was. Mike took his chance, raising his hand from grabbing at the chain around his neck to reach back, prepared to grab John's hair. John dropped the chain and clenched his grip around the man's wrist, fastening the wiretie around it as the man began to spin in his arms.

He got the wiretie tightened just as pain exploded across his face.

He backed up rapidly, praying he'd done the binding right and he wasn't about to get grabbed. He scrambled backward over the too-rough concrete, blood pouring down his nose and into his mouth.

He saw the moment when Mike realized. The wiretie was woven through the chain as always and now connected to him. Mike pulled on his fastened hand and the chain knot around his neck tightened again.

_That'll do, _John thought as he tried to push himself up. He needed to get to the concrete partition that separated him from Mike's belongings.

His vision narrowed and John sank back to the concrete, his body shaking sickly.

He'd crawl, John determined, glad he'd not overestimated himself and tried to escape on foot. He got to the partition, feeling scabs split open all the way down his back, to find his soiled and bloody clothing thrown in a pile in the corner. A bag sat open by Mike's cot, revealing clean and folded clothing and his gun, practically waiting for him.

It felt like a ridiculous waste of time to get dressed but John took it. Shivers were wracking his body; he needed whatever heat he could get. He dressed beside Mike's cot, letting the pain in his shoulders and back keep him awake, telling himself not to lie down in Mike's cot unless he wanted to die in it. Still, he figured, he'd won either way. He was most definitively not mad. No one ever read his military file. He found his wallet and phone in Mike's bag and grabbed his gun, starting back down the car ramp.

Mike was at the bottom, desperately trying to bite at the plastic around his hand.

John shot him through the chest, the sound echoing painfully off the hard walls. Blood sprayed back from the man's corpse and started to drip downhill. John crawled after it, following the sign for the elevator. He had to call an ambulance for himself but he had to do it where he hadn't just committed murder.

~~/~~

"Dripping, echos, concrete. What else?" Sherlock was muttering to himself, his head laying sideways over Mark's desk. He left everyday at midnight and came back clean and well dressed again but as far as Sally could tell, he hadn't yet slept. The mind couldn't do nine days without sleep. He had to have slept, but whenever it had been, it hadn't been for long. The man's skin was yellowed and sickly. The skin under his eyes was dark and baggy, almost bruised, and the man had only gotten quieter, more caustic as the days dragged on. "Data, data, data. Without mud how can I make bricks?" he muttered to himself.

Nothing happened, the rest of that day. Sherlock did not eat. Sally stayed in the main room because Sherlock was there, wondering if the man even peed like a normal man. She left James watching the man when she went to eat and always came back to find Sherlock in the same position, squatting on an office chair, staring at nothing. As far as she could tell, he stayed there all that day, into the night, staring at all their utterly useless 'clues'.

Midnight struck and Sally wondered if she was supposed to hold Sherlock's hand, help him through this somehow, but she'd never been particularly touchy and he definitely didn't seem the type. He didn't even seem to realize she was there.

8:00 AM hit finally, and Sally watched as Sherlock slowly dug his fingers through his hair. John was getting tortured now. The next letter. Lestrade came in and stood by the case board, staring at the pictures. The other officers trickled in, one by one, in total silence, waiting for the next photo that always came at nine.

~~/~~

The officers on the case all wandered idly about, without any work to continue the case and without the heart to declare it over.

They hadn't gotten a photograph that morning. A photograph came every day at nine o'clock, like clockwork, and it was going on ten now. Sherlock Holmes was staring into space, muttering to himself, looking like some kind of disturbing broken doll. John Watson was very likely dead and Sally wondered if that was going to finally destroy Sherlock Holmes. Ironic, after all the man had done to come back from the dead, he'd do it only to watch his partner die. His sexual partner. Christ.

"Nine letters. Jesus," Greg said, sighing as he ran a finger over the picture of John's back, pinned up on the case board outside his office. Sally heard a rustling and turned her head, curious.

Sherlock was frozen, his fingers halfway to his mouth, his face slowly brightening like he was stuck halfway through a high. Or an orgasm. The whole room of Scotland Yard officers stopped to stare at him, hope rising steadily. Sherlock raised his hand, his fingers pressed against his skull as he _thought. _

The officers froze, one by one, as they noticed. All except Anderson who slowly, silently turned around to face the opposite wall.

Sally felt herself smile at him, who now could not see her.

_He's a good man,_ she thought, a twinge of guilt pressing through her again. The man had a wife. She'd have to find a different colleague to fuck.

Lestrade slowly took his radio out, ready to make a call.

_Please, please, come on, _Sally thought, watching Sherlock Holmes stare at the case wall, his eyes darting back and forth in his skull. _Let this be over_ _now. _

Suddenly Sherlock was all movement, taking out his phone and striding toward the door, typing into his phone even as he grabbed his coat.

"1750 West Hamington or 15 Tarington Street, London. Hamington is more likely. Get everyone!" Sherlock shouted as he ran out of the door.

_Oh, thank god, _Sally thought desperately as she ran for her vest, obeying Greg's shouted orders.

Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of Lestrade's car as they got out of the building. Lestrade didn't pause from talking to EMS dispatch, just opened the door for them and Sally climbed inside, leaving Sherlock to the back of the car.

"Want to talk me through it?" Lestrade asked once he'd gotten off the radio and was on the road, lights on and sirens blaring around them.

"Nine letters. Not eight," Sherlock replied grimly. Greg waited before sighing.

"So?"

"John disappeared at roughly 7:00 AM according to when that man was killed in your old crime scene. The letters are always, _always _cut at 8:00, he told us that. So Moriarty's man only had forty five minutes to get John captured, transported, tied down, and woken up before 8:00 AM or we'd only have eight letters. Not nine," Sherlock replied tersely.

_Ten, now, if we're_ _lucky, _Sally thought, deciding not to correct the man. John Watson was likely dead and Sherlock would hardly have forgotten.

"True. Ten," Sherlock said quietly into the silence that had followed his words.

Sherlock stayed absolutely still at the back of the car, his legs crossed. Sally watched in the rear-view mirror. The man just didn't _act _right. It helped her feel slightly better about having accused the man. She'd had all the evidence on her side and the man could be genuinely creepy. He didn't even look _worried, _with his best friend-maybe-lover likely getting tortured to death only a few miles away.

"He'll be okay," she said quietly, wondering how he'd react. He met her eyes sharply in the rear view mirror, looking confused.

"Why would you think that?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed. Greg darted his eyes away from the road to flash her a worried glance and Sally sat back in her seat, giving up.

"We have no idea what we're facing here. We are to do perimeter control only while the force firearms unit performs the building search," Lestrade reminded the force over his radio as they approached the first address. It was a large, concrete building rising out of the middle of a shitty suburban area, next to what looked to be an illegal tire dumpsite. The place had large windows, bricked up on the bottom floors, boarded up above.

"An old factory?" Sally guessed as she gazed out the window. The place was already surrounded by cop cars, the blue lights flashing off of the building's tall concrete walls.

"Old mall," Sherlock replied quietly. "Construction was never finished but the parking garage was mostly completed. All underground. Sound would be impenetrable,"

He climbed out of the car slowly and Sally made sure to stand beside him, ready to grab the man if he tried to enter before the police forced secured the area. To her surprise, Sherlock just stood there, almost completely still as the wind blew his coat back behind him. He pushed his hands in his sleeves and waited, by all appearances willing to stand there forever. He knew they were picking up a body, Sally realized, wincing. They had not gotten another photograph that morning. Moriarty's man for hire had messed up his torture, killed him too fast. John had probably been grateful for it.

_We only needed one more day, _Sally cursed, wanting to cry.

They watched as the special forces unit entered the building and waited. The place was too silent, even with the barking dog they could hear off in the distance.

~~/~~

Sherlock waited by the car to get word. Sally stood behind him, apparently having decided to keep him from doing something stupid, like running inside to get killed when there was nothing else productive he could do. She did not understand him.

He'd always been a thinking thing, always trying to puzzle out how people worked from afar, trying to decide why they did irrational things like committing suicide or getting killed running into a fire to save their dead cat. That had never made any sense. He'd spent a month, at nine years old, obsessing over it to no avail. And yet at 37 he'd figured it out without ever realizing it. He was being swamped with sentiment, like he'd gone weeks without food and couldn't think for hunger, except this was twice as debilitating. He _needed _to know John was alive and he had no idea what his brain would do if he wasn't.

"He wouldn't want you to kill yourself," Sally commented from behind him.

"Why would you think that?" He asked curiously, turning to her. Sentiment still made so much sense to other people; they were all somehow just used to it, processed it in that effortless way they didn't process anything else. Sally blinked at him like he'd said something incomprehensible.

"He'll be dead," Sherlock clarified, "by definition unable to care." She was only silent for a moment, like there was some logical way to respond.

"Lestrade says it was like John Watson had died too, when you jumped. Didn't eat or sleep. Moved out but didn't bring any of his things. God knows what he was doing before Lestrade brought him his clothes. Spent all day at work. His boss, Susan? Sarah? Whatever her name, said she put him on file work, and he'd be there without speaking for days on end, until even the backlogged work was done. That's what brokenhearted people do. He loved you. He'd want you to live," she said.

Sherlock clamped his emotions down again.

It was irrelevant how John had felt, over a year before. He'd probably been dead for hours now.

~~/~~

A force officer came out of the building, back through the kicked-in door, and approached them finally, looking grim.

Sherlock still didn't move, even as the man shook his head at them.

_Damn it, _Sally thought, knowing the answer. John Watson had been a great man. She glanced at Sherlock's face and saw nothing but waiting curiosity.

"I'm sorry sir. We found a body," the man said and Sherlock sneered.

"That's meaningless. _Which _body," he growled.

_After all this he still has hope? _Sally thought, feeling ill.

_Leave the man alone, Sherlock, the answer is obvious, _she thought, but wondered if perhaps it wasn't to Sherlock, if Sherlock really hadn't gotten his answer yet. She didn't want to see him learn that John Watson was gone.

"He was hanging from the ceiling, sir," the officer informed them. Sally closed her eyes.

_Christ. _Too much detail.

"I'm sorry, officers," the man said, glancing curiously at Sherlock, obviously recognizing the man but clearly astute enough not to question him or his return from the dead.

Two men carrying a full body bag on a stretcher walked out of the building, heading for the ambulance. Sherlock strode for them.

_Jesus, man, _Sally wanted to say, but felt a palm settle over her shoulder, stopping her from following the man.

"Let him be," Lestrade ordered. "He needs evidence." His voice was calm but Sally could see how tense he was. Lestrade cared for Sherlock Holmes. This wasn't just about John Watson. It wasn't for her, either, she figured, wanting to collapse to the ground at the thought that they'd arrived only to pick up a body. Dr. John Watson, a damn good man. And more, Sherlock Holmes had lost his partner. Jesus.

Sherlock strode up to the special unit officers and tore open the body bag's zip before either of the men had time to react. Sally watched as the men jerked backward in surprise.

There was nothing in the world as disturbing as Sherlock tipping his head back on his neck and practically _crowing _with success at the image of a revealed body. The man leaped up in the air, a grin stretched across his face, showing no concern at all for the disgust evident on the officer's faces.

"Sherlock, what?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock strode back to them, his stride strong. A smile was stretched across his face, a creepy look for a man Sally had never seen smile about anything other than a case.

"That was not John. And he'd been dead for over a day," Sherlock replied, pulling open the front car door. "Call the closest hospital. They have our missing person," he ordered.

Sally felt astonishment strike her and turned back to watch the emergency medical personnel load the leaden body bag into the ambulance. John had _escaped? _From _here? _She'd seen the pictures; how on earth..

Escaped and killed his tormentor, obviously.

Lestrade's eyes widened and he ran for the car. Sally followed, ignoring that Sherlock had taken her seat.

"Reports of human-inflicted injuries are always to be reported to the police," Lestrade cursed as they sped for the closest hospital, leaving the crime scene behind them. The sirens blared, lights flashing and reflecting off the cars around them.

"They likely were. You evidently have jurisdiction communication issues," Sherlock responded. Sally wanted to snark back, defend them; jurisdiction issues were _difficult, _but they'd spent twenty four hours almost certain John Watson was dead, and John Watson had spent twenty four hours in the hospital alone. Probably still dying. And from the tension still around Sherlock's eyes, the man knew it.

~~/~~


	10. Chapter 10

John sat up in his bed, reading _A Separate Peace. _It was a shitty book but it was one of the only ones left in the hospital's lending library and he'd already read Winnie the Poo. He hadn't decided what to write to Sherlock, or even how to contact the man. He could contact Mycroft but he didn't want the man striding inside, political power wrapped around him like a particularly obnoxious coat. He just wanted to contact Sherlock in case the man had gotten wind of Moriarty's twisted contingency plan. But if Sherlock needed to stay dead, he couldn't out him. He prayed they were done with that particular fiasco. If not he wasn't sure what more he could do. He was not up for killing any more of Moriarty's men for awhile.

A nurse came in to poke at him, her eyes haunted at checking out his injuries. John put his book back down and smiled at her.

"How do the burns look?" he asked and the nurse returned his smile tightly, looking sick at she checked the monitors. His vitals were fine; a bit high but then, he was healing.

"You're doing fine," she replied meaninglessly and John felt his teeth clench.

He'd figured out what'd gone wrong between Sherlock and him. It'd gone wrong for awhile; the Moriarty case had just made it horribly obvious. They had a problem.

Sherlock didn't respect him. Not for what he could _do. _On their most intense cases there wasn't time for Sherlock to give needless explanations to everyone and sundry but if he thought it'd be useful for John to know something he'd take the time to inform him. And whenever time was crunched Sherlock never made that call, because he never thought John would really be useful knowing it.

That was a problem. It led to Sherlock jumping off a building over something John would have been able to help prevent, had he known the assassins were targeting them. And it led to a difference in power in their relationship.

That was a problem.

But John didn't know if Sherlock was ever going to come back to let them address it. He would likely have to live his life alone, uselessly waiting for the man to return, until he finally stopped and got married, and lived a boring little life he'd never be content in. With Sherlock H written into his back. Still, he'd live, knowing Sherlock was alive.

_If he were alive he'd have found me._

John blinked rapidly and forced himself to concentrate on the horrid book in his lap.

~~/~~

Sherlock strode into St. Barts, feeling panic lick at him. He wanted to scream and tear around the place but he made himself approach the front desk. It was fastest to follow their _idiotic _policies.

"Unidentified person, age approximately thirty five to forty, signs of possible torture including burns and lacerations, concentrated on his back. We're here to identify," Sherlock ordered. The woman behind the desk gaped at him, like he'd broken some social code. "Quickly," he demanded. She nodded and glanced back at her computer – she was used to such scenes, apparently.

She typed like John, pecking at the keyboard with her index fingers. Sherlock wanted to break her.

"Room 87, down the hall and to the right, visiting hours are until 6:00 PM except for family," the nurse answered and Sherlock felt himself suck breath into his lungs – symptom of relief. John was here. And alive, then.

Sherlock strode for the room, knowing the building plan. Room 87 was one of the smaller ones, further away from the nurse's break room; Mycroft did not know John was here either. Donovan and Lestrade followed him.

Sherlock stopped, irrationally, outside of John's door, before the windows that would let the man see him.

John had mourned him for a year.

_Fuck._

He was probably the last man John would want to see. He'd put him through too much pain.

_I had no idea you would be so affected, _Sherlock wanted to say, but he knew that wasn't quite accurate. He'd known, back then, how he'd feel thinking John dead. He'd lived it for more than a week, now. John had lived that for a year, and he'd known he was going to do it to the man, he'd planned it. John would never forgive him.

"It'll be okay," Donovan said meaninglessly. Incanting – the common attempt to make a situation better by stating that it was. Useless.

"We'll wait out here," Lestrade said, likely thinking that was the reason he'd paused. Sherlock hesitated, thinking to accept, but what did it matter what Lestrade and Donovan saw of John's reaction to him? He had no pride left.

"There's no need," he replied and walked into the room.

~~/~~

John watched Sherlock step into his hospital room, looking for all the world like a man going to his funeral. The man was staring at him, looking lost. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow and _wrong –_ god when was the last time he'd slept? Eaten? John felt his eyebrows furrow at the sight.

_Right._

"-Last -time -you -eat, -when?" he asked and Sherlock's eyebrows rose, his eyes widened enormously, and John wanted to start laughing and never stop.

_That was the first thing I asked?_

_God, _Sherlock Holmes stood before him, tall and handsome and _whole. _John forced his body to stay still, when he wanted to run his hands over the man, feel him firm, his skull whole and unaltered.

_Fuck, _he wanted to cry. He'd _known _Sherlock was alive, he'd seen the postmortems, but _this.._This was Sherlock Holmes, alive in front of him. Albeit, barely.

John felt a grin stretch across his face at the look of utter _shock _on the man's face.

_He thought I didn't know._

"-You -think -maybe, -next time, -not -make -plans -without -me -you?" John joked. "-Or, -maybe, -not -make -plans -rely on -idea -me -idiot?"

Sherlock's face slowly brightened, his eyes getting that _sparkle _back that John loved.

_Oh my god, Sherlock Holmes. _John felt joy burst in his chest and he forced himself to breathe normally. Still, his monitors were going haywire, beeping faster and faster as John's grin spread across his face.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

"You knew," he said dumbly.

"-Obvious," John replied, laughing. His laughter sounded wrong, catching in the pneumonia that still had doctors fussing over him. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sound, apparently only then remembering it too. John felt his smile fade. "-I -fucking -furious -with -you," he added.

Sherlock's eyes closed briefly and he looked down, looking horrible. John felt his jaw clench, remembering it now. Anger started to build in him, but he was too _tired. _He was still sleeping too much every day, his body fighting the bacteria building in his lungs.

"-John," Sherlock started. "I had to-"

"-You -not -tell me -those -assassins -themselves -targeting -us why? -Before, -roof, -you knew," John demanded.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed again.

"You know about-" he started.

"-I -figure it out -myself -alone. -Why? -A long time ago -if -you tell me, -I -kill -them -sooner," John replied, feeling anger lick at him again. He was glad he didn't have to talk aloud; his throat felt as if it'd closed. God, emotion was swamping him. He wasn't used to it anymore.

"Sooner?" Sherlock asked, his eyes widening before he got that 'oh!' look of utter realization.

"-Yeah," John replied, annoyed. No one ever read his military file. And this time Sherlock's disrespect had meant he'd been too late, hadn't taken his shot until it was almost nothing but revenge.

_No. Sherlock is alive. _They'd won, just horribly. Sherlock was alive, was standing right in front of him. John glanced over Sherlock's body, his height, his clothing and felt happiness bloom in him again.

"I should have told you," Sherlock replied and John felt his eyebrows furrow. That felt..a bit too easy. "I think I should read your military file," he added.

John felt his mouth quirk up a bit.

"-I -good -with -what do," John replied.

"How did you escape?" Sherlock asked and John glanced at the two detective inspectors at either side of his lover. Sherlock was looking stronger again, standing more firmly on his feet and John felt himself want to smile again, the anger draining from him. He was too tired.

_It'll be back._

"-Important?" John asked, and glanced at the side of his bed. God, he needed to hold the man and he needed to go back to sleep.

_He's alive, he's alive, he's alive. _He'd pummel the man later; when he'd healed.

Sherlock smiled fully, apparently forgetting about the detective inspectors on either side of him, and walked over to the side of the bed. He stood nervously, looking unsure whether to climb up or sit down on the chair there.

"How do I-" he asked, his hands clenching and unclenching and John grinned again.

_I love this man. Who gives a shit if we're not equal. I'm staying, _he thought, pulling the blankets out of the way of the man. He heard a pained hiss from someone, and guessed he'd just revealed his very torn up, emaciated leg to Sally Donovan. Hardly his problem.

Sherlock pulled himself up onto the bed, fitting his long body beside John's side though he barely touched him at all. John coughed once to catch his breath and suddenly couldn't stop, filling the air with a horrible rasping hacking. Sherlock froze on the bed like a startled cat, staring at him and John had to grin despite his coughing. The man cared, that at least was abundantly clear. Still, it felt like his energy was being steadily drained from him and John let his eyes start to close, deciding that if Donovan and Lestrade wanted to stay and wake up to his screaming nightmares, they were welcome to do so. He breathed in as deeply as he could without hurting his lungs, doing his best to drag in Sherlock's scent. The scent was warm and familiar and John closed his eyes, feeling a bit more desperate than he liked.

"-My -back, -don't touch," he ordered, barely moving his hands and Sherlock nodded seriously, looking haunted. John rolled over and let the tall man curl around him, barely fitting in the cot. He'd deal with the inspectors later.

~~/~~

Mrs. Hudson was sitting next to Sergeant Donovan by the window, crying into her handkerchief. John blinked sleep away slowly, too tired to deal with it.

"-Fact -you -alive -tell -her -never? -Whole -time -look for -me?" John asked, moving his hands as little as he could. He could feel the bones in his shoulder grind at each other whenever he moved too far, too harsh a reminder of the days before. His whole back stung like it was currently being burned. Still, he did not move from his place leaning against Sherlock's shoulder. John breathed in the tangy scent of burning flesh and swallowed, fighting the insanity back. His next morphine dosage was not scheduled for an hour. It would get far worse before it got better. Talking would help. Sherlock seemed to know that too, for he answered quickly.

"I did not leave the police headquarters but to go to Molly's for new clothing," Sherlock stated, before tilting his head slightly, looking confused and adding "and I ate at a diner with Donovan". John blinked. Donovan looked up from her science magazine and nodded back at him, as if they'd just made some gentleman's agreement. John glanced up at Sherlock, baffled.

"I need a statement," Donovan ordered, matching John's eyes. She looked surprisingly sympathetic, her eyes scanning over his bandages.

"Not now," Sherlock hissed back, sounding furious. John shook his head, too tired to deal with it, and watched as Mrs. Hudson wiped the tears off her face.

"Oh, pardon," she said, her voice rough, "it's just such a thing." She glanced between them fondly and Sherlock smiled down at him, in his strange closed-mouth way, looking oddly smug. John tried to smile back at him, feeling his body start to droop with exhaustion. He did not want to face the nightmares.

"Don't hold me down, if I start to scream," he muttered. Mrs. Hudson sucked in a heavy breath but John was too tired to respond to it.

~~/~~

John woke up to hear Sherlock hissing at the incoming nurse, looking for all the world like a particularly brassed off animal.

"Can you not let the man sleep for six minutes straight?"

The nurse put her hands on her hips, her face drawn in annoyance. She looked tired, John noted blearily.

"He needs his bandage changed," she replied, her voice sharp.

"Change it later," Sherlock ordered, rolling back over so carefully John had to smile. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his and held his gaze.

_Holy hell, you're alive. _John felt joy strike through him.

"Be nice to the nursing staff, Sherlock," he ordered and Sherlock slid off the bed to obey without a word. The nurse's eyebrows rose at the exchange, but John ignored her, rolling onto his back to give the nurse access to the painful wounds.

More bandages meant fresh morphine, he reminded himself.

"How is his back?" Sherlock demanded and the nurse's lips pinched with annoyance as she turned on the light. John groaned just to see Sherlock scowl at the woman.

"It's doing well," she replied, still looking at the wall and John watched, waiting for Sherlock to start cursing out hearing people and all the brainless things they did when talking to the deaf.

"What does 'doing well' mean? Doing well healing or doing well 'mindless platitude to suit the sentimental'?" Sherlock demanded. John felt his breath rush into his throat and coughed heavily, his lungs protesting.

"You fucking bastard. Did you fake the deaf thing too?" he asked, getting ready to be furious. The nurse glanced at him, clearly concerned for his mental acuity.

"I healed," Sherlock responded quietly. "Over the last six months. Almost total restoration, now," he added.

John felt his heart sink, though he didn't know why he was sad at the news. It was a good thing. He let his breath out slowly, trying not to react too quickly. But he'd missed it. He'd missed what Sherlock had looked like, the first sound that registered again. He'd missed his frustration. He must have been frustrated. Six months of recovery. They'd lost over a year. Sherlock would be able to hear himself play now, get the violin back from Molly, take care of the cases on his own. Oh.

"We're going to need to talk," John stated aloud, closing his eyes again, too exhausted to keep them open, even if his back was about to be cleaned and taped and hurt again.

Sherlock didn't climb onto the cot again, after. He wandered about the room and sat and stood and generally made too much noise until John fell back asleep, and every time John was woken up by the damn nurses and their lights the man was in the room but never touching him.

John did his best to sleep despite it all, knowing that Mrs. Hudson would be coming in again the next day. He'd want his energy to be properly reassuring for her.

~~/~~

John sat in the living room chair, watching Sherlock putter about the house, putting his belongings back where they were supposed to be. The place was still torn up; science equipment and books long since donated, leaving the bookcases oddly barren.

Mrs. Hudson was singing downstairs, almost overwhelming in her happiness and John wondered why he couldn't quite feel it.

Sherlock Holmes was back, standing by the refrigerator, healthy and whole. He couldn't ask for more. Moriarty was gone, his back was on the way to being healed, albeit scarred, and he was sitting in 221B, the bus outside loudly announcing its route.

Still, something felt _off._

Sherlock kept glancing at him, looking up from the boxes of belongings Mrs. Hudson had packed up but had never had the heart to sell. Sherlock threw a pair of oven mitts onto the kitchen table and stalked toward him. John glanced over his face, confused as the man stood in front of his chair, his sharp gaze boring through him.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded and glanced over his body. John blinked, unsure what to answer. "This doesn't feel right," Sherlock clarified, gesturing between them.

John nodded and set aside the newspaper he'd been pretending to read.

_I don't remember how to act around you._

"-Don't remember -how -" John started, before stopping and putting his hands in his lap, clearing his throat. Sherlock could hear. That was over, too, now. John didn't know how to say it with words, and cleared his throat again.

"-Don't -remember -how -act -near -you," John signed, before rubbing his face heavily. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, obviously confused; why would he struggle to sign, if he didn't have to? John tipped his head back into his leather headrest. He didn't know how to talk to Sherlock aloud, not in the same way.

"Just act as you want," Sherlock replied, blinking rapidly.

John smiled grimly. He wanted the past back, the way they were for those few short months when Sherlock needed and wanted him and it felt like the whole world was opening up before them. Sherlock had never fully respected him in their shared work but that had somehow been alright. He was angry now and Sherlock could hear, and somehow that meant they couldn't go back to the way they were before.

_Bugger it._

"-What -I -want? -Not -make sense," John answered, letting himself just sign. Sherlock's eyes furrowed again, obviously futilely trying to piece the clues together.

"How could it make sense? It's all sentiment. Emotions rarely follow logic and if they do its at best by happenstance," Sherlock argued.

_God, I love you, _John thought, but he couldn't just reach out and _touch _the man. He didn't even fully know why. John shook his head. He did not know what was wrong. Sherlock growled deep in his throat, threw his head back in annoyance, and stalked back to his belongings. John watched him hang the oven mitts back up on the wall in their proper place, joy starting to return to him. For now, he did not much care what was off between them. Sherlock Holmes was alive and he was not hanging by a hook in a parking garage.

The hours passed too slowly. Sherlock kept his back stiff and proper, obviously bothered. He usually flittered between tasks in such a mood, making his violin screech and throwing papers on the floor as he pawed idly through them. Now he stayed on task, tirelessly sifting through the boxes and bags of his belongings and returning them all to their place, as if that could solve the problem that stood cold and uncomfortable between them. He met John's eyes, finally, when he got to the bottom of the last box, as if to see if his efforts had worked.

"-I -want -hit -you," John stated. Sherlock smiled, his pale eyes brightening with hope.

"Would that help?" he asked, striding across the room toward him. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock stopped to squat by his chair, facing him straight on.

"-Have -multiple -back -lacerations, -remember?" John replied, coughing out a laugh.

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

"Later, then," he stated and John smiled slightly. Better, they were getting better. It was just going to take time. John nodded firmly at the man and returned to his newspaper. Sherlock got up and crossed the room to pick up his violin, only to set it down again. John smiled to himself and started in on his article.

~~/~~

Sherlock apparently had two modes of being. He could be his usual horrendous self or he could be overwhelmingly charitable, a caricature of human kindness meant to manipulate people into doing as he wanted. He did not know what to do, apparently, when he truly wanted to be kind. John sat in the cold tub, watching as Sherlock pressed a warm sponge against his chest. Sherlock stared at the sponge in his hand like a surgeon carefully applying a cutting instrument, needing perfect precision. He looked horrendously uncomfortable.

"-I -think," John started nervously and cleared his throat. "I think I'm used to mourning. It's hard to just...stop," he stated aloud.

Sherlock glanced up from the sponge, looking torn.

"Would you really have been able to kill those assassins?" Sherlock asked, settling into his squat before the bathtub. "Even while they were all attempting to watch us?"

John cleared his throat again, uncomfortable. Kills were something that were done and then never discussed again. Sherlock washed the sponge out in the bucket and scrubbed at his chest again.

"They weren't watching us, they were watching you," he stated. Sherlock nodded slowly, agreeing. "This whole time, Moriarty underestimated me. I don't go insane after a week of torture," John growled. He was going to hate unexpected touches and the dark and be afraid to be alone, for awhile. It would pass in time. That was hardly 'insanity'. Moriarty had always had too much a flare for the dramatic and he was already used to nightmares.

"We can use that, next time," Sherlock stated and John felt his eyebrows furrow.

_Next time we need to kill three assassins or next time I'm being tortured for a week? _John wondered, for once not liking the feeling of his adrenaline kicking up.

_I'd need some time first, please._

"Only if you let me know what's going on," John replied, feeling annoyance flicker at him again. Sherlock stared at the sponge again.

"I thought it best-" he started. John grimaced.

"I prefer to have an equal say in subjects that include my listing as a missing person," John stated. "You had the facts I needed to avoid that and you kept them from me because you did not think I could be helpful knowing them."

Sherlock gazed up at him, his eyes worried and John moved to get out of the bathtub. Sherlock moved to help him immediately.

"It won't happen again," he stated, supporting John's arms. John's shoulders screamed but he did not have a choice but to rest some of his weight on Sherlock with them. The man could hardly grab him around his waist. John nodded, hissing out his pain, and Sherlock moved to help him dress.

~~/~~

John made himself tea while Sherlock set up his latest revolting experiment, contentment washing through him again. There was more to fix, between them.

"I would prefer not to sleep alone anymore," John stated, turning around from the stove. Sherlock looked up from his pig ears, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Punch me in the face, heal the rest of the way, then can we sleep together again?" Sherlock asked, his voice quiet. John felt a grin stretch across his face.

"Or we could do that whole routine backward," John replied and Sherlock's face lit up. John nodded slowly and reached out. He could only reach so far before it pulled on the muscles in his back and Sherlock reached out to meet his hand before he had to get that far. John nodded at him gratefully, squeezing the genius' hand, not caring whatever disgusting gunk was on those thin fingertips just then.

_My god, he's alive._

They were going to live together, _be together. _In 221B. Holy hell, but it felt like a dream. Sherlock pulled his hand away and turned back to his small pile of pig flesh, apparently content with the development.

"Would you have come back, if I hadn't been captured?" John asked and Sherlock winced and looked up again.

"Understand, John, that I had no way to know that-" he started, pulling away from the table to clasp his fingers beneath his chin.

John nodded briskly, running a finger over the scabbed cuts around his wrists. That was answer enough.

"Thank god for Moriarty's contingency plans, then," John stated. Sherlock swallowed heavily, apparently not amused, and ran a hand down his pressed shirt, his fingers catching in his own buttons.

"John, I-" he started, and ran his hand down his chest again. John blinked, confused. He hadn't seen that nervous gesture before.

Sherlock glanced around the too-tidy flat, his eyes darting about in the way that John had mostly forgotten.

_God I love this man._

"John, I believe I love you," Sherlock stated suddenly, his eyes searching John's face. John blinked rapidly, surprised by the rapid change of subject and watched as Sherlock's gaze studied him intently, catching every nuance.

_You can't lie to this man, _he remembered, feeling pride rise through him.

"Good," he said, coughing as his pneumonia caught up to him again. Sherlock grinned, apparently thinking that was his answer. "It'd be awkward if you didn't," he stated.

Sherlock laughed, his voice hearty and deep and _alive, _and _god, _but John wanted a case to make them feel normal again.

~~/~~

Sherlock pulled back the covers to help him get into his bed and John ignored the twinge of self-consciousness he felt as he crawled onto the tall mattress like a child. Sherlock lay down beside him on the other side and they lay in the darkness side by side.

"This is awkward. Why is this awkward?" Sherlock asked suddenly and John grinned, his expression slowly growing until he started to giggle. Sherlock joined in and it was all John could do to stay on his stomach, away from his wounds as he broke down laughing, unable to stop. It hurt his back and arms and lungs and John did not care. He was out of that damn parking garage and Sherlock was right next to him, alive and whole. He wanted to laugh forever. Sherlock laughed with him, his chuckle hearty and deep, until John was wheezing and coughing, and Sherlock got out of bed to bring him water. John nodded his thanks and took the full glass from the man. Sherlock slipped back under the sheets and ran a hand over John's hair as he drank, his blue eyes scanning him and John lifted his head into the touch, all that he could really do.

~~/~~

Science equipment arrived the next day, and John stood by the door, feeling utterly useless as the boxes were carried up the steps without his help.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairway, directing the movers up, her voice sing-songy and thrilled and John tried to hide how _awkward _he felt, not quite knowing where to be.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day putting microscopes and chemical mixes together about the kitchen and John was content to sit in his chair, pretending to read the newspaper as he watched the man.

_God, but he's alive._

Even with pneumonia eating at his lungs and strange chemicals in the air, he felt like he could breathe again.

Still, he wasn't going to let the man out of his sight.

"Yoo hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called out, climbing up the stairs with a tray. John started to rise from his chair to help her but pain shot down his back and he settled slowly, trying to hide his wince. He doubted it worked, from the way Sherlock stared at him, his eyes roaming up and down his body quickly before the genius turned back to their landlady.

"Pastries, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked and the woman beamed at him like the genius had just solved their hardest case.

"Fresh from the oven, don't you know," she answered, putting down the tray and kissing Sherlock's head quickly. "Oh, but it's good to see you sitting there again," she said, her smile softening quietly. Sherlock nodded, wincing slightly.

"A thousand apologies, Mrs. Hudson. I hadn't known-" he started and she waved him off.

"Oh tosh. Don't get into that. Though I must say, if you'd only told John, he would have shot them all and none of this would have happened," she complained. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow and he shot John a quick look. John grinned at the expression.

"I truly thought-" Sherlock started but Mrs. Hudson glared at him and he settled. She smiled and leaned down to kiss his cheek.

"I'm just glad you're back, dearie," she said and he nodded at her stiffly before going back to his microscope construction.

_So much for the heartwarming declaration of love, _John thought, but Mrs. Hudson just beamed at the man. Apparently being ignored, as always, was better.

~~/~~


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 21

John followed Sherlock onto the crime scene, doing his best not to grin at the slowly decaying corpse beside the dumpster. A swarm of police sectioned off the area and Sherlock ducked under the tape, turning back to beam at John, no such concern for propriety.

Sherlock clapped his hands together at the sight of the corpse and leaned back, breathing the air, looking for a moment like a man caught in prayer.

"Christ, but it's good to be back," he stated, smiling fully at Anderson, who grimaced at him predictably. Donovan started for them, actually notglaring at the two of them. John had still not quite puzzled that mystery out.

"We thought we were dealing with another gang murder," Donovan told them, pointing at the graffiti mark sprayed onto the alley wall. "But the corpse is identified as a Mr. Harold Shrew, no connection to any of the rival gangs."

_Actually informative, _John thought, surprised again, his eyebrows rising.

"Thank you," Sherlock stated quietly, and John cocked his head slightly. Donovan smiled back at him and nodded.

"Sure," she stated.

"-What happen?" John signed, gesturing between the two of them. Sherlock looked confused for a moment before his face brightened with realization.

"She felt guilty about further damaging my bad name and thought that it had something to do with why I jumped. She helped find you during that shishkobab case," Sherlock answered, gesturing at the scars on John's back before he strode toward the corpse. Donovan blinked rapidly, looking vaguely disturbed.

"Accurate enough," she stated finally. John nodded. That at least explained the shared meal in the diner. Still, John could barely imagine the woman badgering his rather obnoxious lover into eating.

_Alright, _he accepted. At least it meant they didn't have to deal with her temper.

"I am not going to put that title in my blog," he said instead and Sherlock scoffed out a laugh. Good, they could laugh about this; they could get over it. John smiled back at him.

"So, is it true that you are together?" Anderson asked sharply, glancing between them as John followed his partner toward the corpse. God, but it smelled.

John didn't bother answering, focusing instead on the body laid out in front of them. Time of death was Anderson's job.

"Dead between six to twelve hours," Anderson stated and John nodded, seeing the rigor and liver mortis.

The officers were staring at them fairly openly and John felt his back twitch, not liking the feeling.

"Why is everyone staring?" Sherlock asked bluntly, glancing around the officers. Donovan shifted quietly.

John glanced around and saw Lestrade glaring at all of the officers in the area, already starting to look brassed off at them. Apparently he'd decided they were attempting to remain closeted.

"I'm fairly certain they're trying to determine whether or not we're fucking each other," John stated. Sherlock nodded swiftly, taking that in, and turned back to the corpse.

_I'm wondering the same thing._ They had not even kissed since they'd both gotten back to 221B.

"It's not related to the gangs," Sherlock stated, pointing toward the gang sign. "Look at that graffiti tag," he stated.

John looked at it, a yellow and red series of letters that looked nothing like an English word. Sherlock glanced at him, looking nervous.

"-I -need -tell -you -why -or -no?" he signed, clearly uncomfortable.

"-Just -danger -not -hide. -Danger -I -don't know -about?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"-Not -likely," he answered. John nodded.

"Okay then," he said aloud. Anderson grimaced.

"Great, now they have a code," he growled.

Sherlock smirked slightly.

"-Go -finger yourself," he replied, before turning back to the crime scene. John barked out a laugh at the graphic sign and returned to glancing around the alley, trying to be useful.

_Jesus, this is like old times, _John thought, glancing around the filthy space. He felt...numbed. Like he was supposed to feel happier, but it only ever came in waves.

He wanted to hold onto Sherlock and never let go.

"I'm guessing that wasn't complimentary," Donovan replied, sounding amused. John searched her face, surprised again. She sounded going on _friendly _now.

Lestrade was looking at them, smiling quietly to himself.

"Boring," Sherlock declared, turning around. "John?" he asked and John nodded.

"God yes," John replied, turning to lead the way away from the corpse, back to 221B.

~~/~~

They'd barely gotten out of the street before Sherlock had turned around and pressed him back, stopping just before the wall. Sherlock hesitated, his face hovering over John's and John smiled.

_We're going to be okay. _

Sherlock smiled at him, looking thrilled for a moment, before he lowered his face and kissed him. John felt the man's hard body push against his own and smiled against his lips.

"Not the back," he warned, kissing back and pressing forward. Sherlock stepped back, letting out a frustrated groan and John smiled again. "You're alive," he whispered.

Sherlock pulled his head back, his eyes haunted.

"I'm alive," he agreed and John pressed his forehead against the man's chest.

"Good," he stated.

"Food?" Sherlock asked and John grinned.

"-Starving," he signed.

"I know a shortcut," Sherlock stated and John groaned, following him back onto the street.

~~/~~

"There's a case for you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson stated as she walked up the stairs. John set down his paper, interested.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, his eyebrows raised.

"A bunch have prison murders, found to be connected. There's a right mystery for you," she explained, putting down the tea tray she carried on the end table between them. John grabbed a digestible and smiled at her.

Sherlock took the newspaper from her and smiled, his eyes darting over the front page.

"A note! Excellent," he said, shooting up from his chair. John got up, adrenaline rocking through him.

_God, yes, _he thought, running for the door, his back barely twinging.

~~/~~

They caught the man packing his bags, ready to drive to god-knew-where in a blue minivan. John pummeled the man and got his gun from him, only to hold him against the van until the police arrived.

He had dreams at night, nightmares of Mike and hot metal, mixed in with his dreams of Afghanistan and images of Sherlock falling, the crunch of skull hitting concrete. More memories that kept him chasing after adrenaline, the life constantly on the edge of action that proved that he'd lived through it and had come out stronger on the other side.

He released the bastard into Donovan's handcuffs and leaned against the warm car, glad as hell to feel the sense of power rushing through him.

Sherlock grinned at him, triumph shining through his eyes and John grinned back, just before the man swooped down, pressing him back against the car. John kissed the man back before Sherlock pulled away, hiding his face in his shoulder and inhaling his scent. They had never made any decision to come out but John found himself grinning, glad that apparently, they'd decided to do so. Or more, simply not to hide. There did not seem to be much point of making an announcement; the rest of the officers certainly didn't call conference room gatherings for their relationship changes.

Sherlock stepped away, his eyes alight.

"Really, really didn't need to see that," Sally grumbled and John glanced at her, knowing she was joking. Now that Sherlock had faked his own death and John had killed a man strung up by a wiretie in an abandoned mall, she trusted them. The woman had twisted priorities, apparently.

_God knows how Mycroft got that one to go away. _John did not much care. The man owed them far more than that. And knew it, apparently. He had only come around once, and had not said a word. Sherlock had made his violin scream until the man had strode back down the stairs.

The other officers were politely looking away, knowing better than to voice their opinions and John went back to beaming at Sherlock Holmes – his lover, once again.

"Dinner?" he asked and John grinned.

"Starving," he answered.

~~/~~

"Do you know why people marry, John?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his microscope like marital relations had something to do with the horse flesh he was looking at.

"-Not -really," John signed right-handed without putting down his coffee mug as he drank.

"I want assurance that I won't be alone," Sherlock stated finally, staring into his microscope again. John put down his mug slowly.

_Did you just-_

"So does everyone," John agreed.

"Asinine. I want to be with you in particular. Everyone else is intolerable," Sherlock clarified, barely glancing up from the slides.

"Alright," John replied slowly, glancing around the kitchen table.

"Excellent," Sherlock declared. John blinked.

_Did he just...? _

"Yeah..," John answered, still confused. Sherlock nodded sharply and said nothing more. John felt himself blink heavily but let it go. Sherlock was rarely one for sentiment, and held no regard for tradition. John had decided a long time ago that that was fine.

~~/~~

John knew it was Mycroft by the time he heard the man on the second step. The footsteps and slight creek of the umbrella digging into carpet stopped at the top of the stairs at the open door to the living room. John glanced at Sherlock who was pretending to be too caught up in his latest -dead-something-in-Thames-water experiment to notice. Mycroft had left them alone for months now. Enough was enough, John thought.

"Come on in, Mycroft, we're in the kitchen," John called and Sherlock shot him a quick look of approval. That he'd known who was there, rather than that he'd invited him further inside, John guessed, smiling back quickly and turning to fill the kettle.

"Well. This is quite a glimpse into old times," Mycroft said simply, standing before the kitchen table and glancing at their setup. The kitchen had finally been restored into a proper laboratory, complete with body parts, and John still liked to look at it all and just stare, praying he could keep it.

"Yes, do try not to ruin it this time," Sherlock replied and Mycroft winced.

"Tea?" John asked, holding up the full kettle. Mycroft nodded and John put it on the stove before he turned back to face the pair. Mycroft stood, looking actually uncertain in the threshold of the kitchen, his umbrella held limply in one hand.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded. Mycroft smiled thinly, looking vaguely ill as always.

"Simply to invite you both to grandmother's one hundred and first. You are properly excited, I hope," he stated.

John felt his eyebrows furrow.

"Us both? Why would I-" he started and Mycroft turned to him to stare at him, his eyebrows raised.

"Ah, yes, I had forgotten to welcome you properly to the family, John. Congratulations," he stated, rolling back on his feet slightly and John felt his eyebrow lift.

_What the devil?_ John had forgotten how nice it was to have the dramatic man too remorseful to step foot in their home.

Sherlock snarled into his latest jar of horseflesh and twisted the cap off with an ugly _pop. _

Mycroft smiled again tightly and tapped his umbrella.

"Well. On that note, I do hope you both can make it," he ordered, and strode for the staircase.

"Charming," Sherlock snarled and John clicked the stove off, figuring neither of them would actually want it.

"I'm off to the store, then," he stated. It always was better off to leave Sherlock alone after one of Mycroft's dire visits.

~~/~~

They were invited to the Scotland Yard autumn happy hour every year, though Sherlock scowled at Lestrade whenever the man mentioned it. John could only gape at his genius lover when he declared at 8:00 that he did, in fact, wish to go that night. Still, John grabbed his coat and gloves and led the man out of their flat.

The bar was actually fairly quiet and the officers of Scotland Yard gathered around a large table at the center of the room, making far more noise than anything around them. Sherlock snarled at the mass of people as he entered. John glanced around the room, looking for whatever target or contact that Sherlock was really here for before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to have to play guessing games anymore. That had ended quite spectacularly badly and they had a deal. An equal relationship, regardless of genius.

He tapped Sherlock's shoulder and the man turned.

"-case -things -you -not hide -from me," he reminded the man, holding up his eyebrows. Sherlock shoved his hands into his pocket and grimaced. John glared and he nodded seriously.

"This one time, John. I promise it's not dangerous," he stated. John held his gaze, feeling fear rush through him.

_I'm not supposed to be left out, _he thought, but Sherlock looked desperate and excited, and...happy, somehow, and John wondered what the _hell _this was about, but he was more curious than nervous.

"Okay," he agreed, focusing on Sherlock again. "No danger?" he confirmed.

"Shouldn't be," Sherlock agreed and John relaxed again.

Sherlock led him to the group of officers gathered around a round table. They stared at their arrival but Lestrade and Donovan both moved to pull chairs up to the table for them. All of the officers scooted closer together to make room.

"Thank you," Sherlock greeted, settling down in his chair to watch the crowd, as always.

John grinned, catching the tail end of a story he'd heard and leaned forward, reminded of a time a prat of a soldier had tried to give him carpet burn with his newly-clipped hair. The group of officers and inspectors had always appealed to him, all with a mix of military and middle-class backgrounds, and John felt himself incorporated into the group again, swapping stories as he'd always loved.

"John," Sherlock stated suddenly, when John was starting on his second drink, somehow gaining the attention of the whole table. "I'm told I did this wrong," he said, frowning, looking nervous and a bit too pale. John felt his eyebrows furrow, wondering what on earth was wrong with the man. Sherlock rarely looked concerned about social moorings at all, much less _nervous. _

"John, I want to be with you and no one else for the rest of my life, and I will make any vow you'd like to make that happen," Sherlock stated, before getting up suddenly and pulling his chair out of the way. The officers table went suddenly, utterly silent.

_Oh. Christ. _

Sherlock lowered himself to one knee beside his chair and stared up at John's face, his eyes darting over his face.

"Oh good," Sherlock stated suddenly, smiling like a maniac and started to get up.

"-Ask me, -idiot," John signed, pushing a hand down on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Why? From the set of your-" Sherlock started and John kicked him. Sherlock grinned at him and rolled his eyes. He opened a jewelry box John had never noticed him having in his hand. Inside was a simple gold band, almost unadorned. Perfect.

"Just ask," John ordered again aloud. The men on the table threw back their heads and laughed, apparently catching on to the exchange. The whole room was staring at them now.

"John Watson, will you marry me?" Sherlock asked and John grinned, knowing full well he looked like a besotted fool.

"God, yes," he stated and Sherlock snapped the box closed and stood, grabbing his hand.

"Now that that's done," he stated, striding for the exit. John saw Donovan take her fingers to her mouth and whistle in an earsplitting catcall and the whole group started pounding on the table, cheering and laughing.

"Right," John stated, feeling a blush rise up to his ears as he allowed himself to be pulled from the pub.

The End


End file.
